THE    [BRARY 


[HE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 


MISS    ANNIE    R.    BLOUNT. 


AUGUSTA,  GA.: 
PUBLISHED   BY   H.    D.  NORRELL, 

NO.    226    BKOAD    STREET. 
1860. 


filtered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860,  by 

H.    D.    NORRELL, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  Georgia. 


PS 
A/03 


DEDICATION. 

THIS  little  volume — a  humble  but  sincere  tribute  of 
esteem — is  dedicated 

To  one,  whose  genius  and  eloquence,  whose  public  worth 
and  private  virtues,  have  made  him  the  pride  and  boast  of 
his  native  land.  "Whose  beneficial  influence  exerted  for  the 
happiness  and  prosperity  of  Georgia,  who  loves  to  call  him 
SON,  and  the  entire  South  that  delights  to  do  him  honor, 
will  last  when  marble  has  crumbled  to  decay. 

Whose  memory — in  the  hearts  of  all  who  appreciate 
nobility  of  heart,  generosity  of  soul,  integrity  of  purpose, 
and  pure  patriotism — will  live  long  after  the  seal  of  death 
has  closed  his  lips  and  hushed  the  music  of  his  eloquent 
voice. 

One,  who  has  loved  to  encourage  laudable  ambition — 
delighted  to  aid  struggling  genius — who  has  never  turned  a 
deaf  ear  to  the  tale  of  pity,  or  refused  to  cheer  the  despond 
ent  soul  by  kind  and  gentle  words. 

One,  who  has  carried  with  him  into  his  retirement  from 
public  life,  the  kind  wishes,  the  admiration,  and  the  esteem 
of  political  foe  as  well  as  friend ;  and  who  stands  to-day,  the 
embodiment  of  all  that  is  best  and  noblest  in  man. 

One  whom  the  author  is  proud  to  call  her  friend ;  and 
feels  that  she  is  echoing  the  sentiments  of  a  nation  in  saying, 

"  None  know  him  but  to  love  him, 
None  name  him  but  to  praise — " 

HON.  ALEXANDER  H.  STEPHENS. 

567089 


CONTENTS. 


THE  DYING  AETIST 

ALICE  MAY IT 

"  I'LL  BE  THY  BE1DE " 20 

TO  PICCOLOMINI 23 

REVENGE  2T 

WHAT  IS  LIFE  ?       -  S3 

CARKIE  BELL 40 

THE  DEATH  SCENE 42 

TELL  ME  WHY  -                       4T 

LITTLE  ANNIE 49 

TO  MY  LITTLE  CANARY  BIRD 52 

IDLE  RHYMES          -  56 

THE  COQUETTE                                    69 

A  DREAM -  64 

A  POEM -           -           -           -  69 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  SONG  TO  HIS  WIFE          ....  76 

TO  YOU T9 

TO  MY  BROTHER    -  80 

HUMAN  BEAUTY         -                       84 

THE  ONE  I  PRIZE 87 

HYMN  TO  OLD  AGE    -                                    89 

CASTLES  BUILT  IN  THE  COALS 93 

THE  DESERTED  WIFE 100 

MY  MOTHER 105 

LOVE'S  LAST  REQUEST 109 

AN  AUTUMN  REVERIE 113 

THE  MORNING  LIGHT                       119 

FORGETFULNESS    -  121 

TO  LITTLE  STEVIE      •  128 

HEART  ILLUSION 127 

MODERN  LOVE 129 

"I  WISH  SOMEBODY  WOULD  COME"  -                              -           -  133 

AT  REST 185 

MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE 188 

HOPE 141 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGK 

NO  MORE 

PHANTOMS  OF  MY  SLEEP 146 

DEATH  AT  SEA 

THE  LOCK  OF  HAIR  -                                                                       -  -      164 

FADING  SUMMER 166 

"LOVED  AND  LOST" 

"GOD  BLESS  YOU!" 176 

ALONE                                                                                          -           -  -      ITS 

"LOVE  NOT"  180 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  DEAD    -  -      187 

FAME,  PLEASURE,  AND  RELIGION    -           -  .        -           -           -  189 

WOMAN'S  LOVE                                                                       -           -  -      194 

TO  A  YOUNG  POETESS 199 

THE  GRAVE  IN  THE  HEART  204 

THE  DYING  YOUNG  WIFE 206 

WHAT  THE  MOON  SHINES  ON       -           -         •-  213 

FAREWELL 218 

THE  POET'S  DREAM  ...  221 

THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER  225 

THE  BROKEN  HEART           ....  22S 

VERSES  232 

"  AWEARY "  -      233 

RETROSPECTION    -                       -  234 

MILLER'S  GRAVE -      237 

THE  EVENING  STAR         -           -  240 

"THE  APPROACHING  FOOTSTEP"          -                                   -  -      241 

PARTING        -  245 

THE  PAST                                                                                               -  -      250 

THE  ROSE  AND  THE  LAUREL  252 

SUDDEN  DEATH          -  257 

GLITTER  259 

A  TRIBUTE  TO  CAPT.  HERNDON  -  261 

THE  OLD  FARM-HOUSE    -                                                                       -  263 

THE  GIPSY  BRIDE      -           -  266 

UNDER  THE  LAMPLIGHT 272 


TO  THE  READER. 

SOME  of  these  poems — if  they  deserve  the  name — 
are  fugitive  pieces  that  have  floated  about  in  the 
papers  and  magazines  of  the  day,  and  have  been 
collected  and  thrown  together  in  book  form.  A 
number  of  others  are  given  to  the  public  for  the 
first  time,  to  receive  its  approval,  its  criticism,  or  its 
cool  indifference.  THE  AUTHOR. 

AUGUSTA,  GA.,  JAN.,  1860. 


POEMS 


THE  DYING  ARTIST. 

PUT  aside  his  easel  softly — lay  his  pencils  gently  by, 
Ope  the  window-shutters  lightly,  let  him  look  upon  the 

sky; 
For  the  stars  which  shine  so  brightly,  lighting  up  each 

gloomy  cave, 
When  they  burn  again  in  beauty  will  shed  lustre  o'er 

his  grave. 

Let  the  soft  rich  air  of  Egypt  kiss  once  more  his  fading 
brow, 

But,  though  laden  o'er  with  memories,  it  cannot  charm 
him  now  ; 

For  the  life-light  dim  is  growing  in  his  earnest,  thought 
ful  eye  : 

And  his  cheek  is  growing  whiter — yes,  we  know  that  he 
must  die ! 

There,  within  that  temple  ancient,  'mid  its  columns 

grand  and  old, 
Where  the  moonbeams  o'er  those  ruins  cast  their  rays 

of  paly  gold  ; 
Where  the  eye  could  rest  enchantedly  o'er  many  an 

ancient  pile, 
And  the  ear  could  list  in  rapture  to  the  music  of  the 

Nile— 

1  *  (9) 


10  THE    DYING    ARTIST. 

In  that  land  of  memories  olden — 'mid  those  ruins  bleak 

and  hoary, 
Stately  columns  mutely  telling  tales  of  past  Egyptian 

glory. 
When  Egypt's  gods  were  worshipped  in  the  days  forever 

gone, 
And  thousands  pressed  with  eager  feet  to  bow  before 

a  stone — 

There  within  that  grand  old  temple,  reared  beneath  the 
heavens'  blue  dome, 

Our  Christian  friend  was  dying,  far  from  friends  and 
far  from  home. 

Stranger  hands  must  smooth  the  tresses  o'er  his  fore 
head  white  and  cold, 

And  a  stranger  hand  must  wrap  him  in  the  shroud  of 
snowy  fold. 

Hist ! — he  listens  in  the  silence  to  a  voice  serene  and 

clear, 
Not  the  fabled  voice  of  Memnon  making  music  on  his 

ear; — 
'Tis  a  voice  that  must  reach  us  dwell  we  in  whatever 

clime, — 
'Tis  the  voice  of  the  Eternal  calling  to  the  child  of  Time ! 

Stranger  friend  !  bend  o'er  him  softly — listen  !  catch  his 

parting  breath — 
Soon  those  lips  will  close  in  stillness,  and  be  hushed 

for  aye  in  death  ; 


THE   DYING   ARTIST.  11 

Soon  thine  ears  will  list  no  murmur  but  the  gentle  even 
ing  breeze — 

"  Oh,  bear  this  message,  stranger,  to  my  home  beyond 
the  seas ! 

"  If  by  chance  you  meet  my  mother — I  was  all  her  joy 

and  pride — 
Tell   her  gently,  very  gently,  how  I  lived,  and  how  I 

died  ; — 
Tell  her  how  I   pined  and  sickened   in  this  distant 

stranger  land, 
To  look  on  one  familiar  face — clasp  one  familiar  hand. 

"  Tell  her  how  I  went  in  dreamings  to  that  cottage 

'neath  the  hill, 
How  I  listened  in  my  slumbers  to  that  gently  rippling 

rill 
Which  goes  babbling  by  her  window  to  the  forest's 

cooling  shade, 
Through  the  woodlands,  o'er  the  meadows,  where  in 

boyhood  I  have  played. 

"  Tell  her  how  I  pined  in  anguish  but  to  see  her  face 

once  more, 
But  to  stand  beneath  the  portal  of  the  old  vine-covered 

door  ; — 
Up  that  old  familiar  pathway  nevermore  my  feet  will 

roam — 
Oh,  stranger  !  it  is  bitter  thus  to  die  from  friends  and 

home. 


12  THE    DYING   ARTIST. 

"  Could  I  hear  my  father's  blessing  fondly  falling  on 

me  now, 
Could  I  feel  my  mother's  kisses  gently  pressed  upon 

my  brow  ; 
Even  Azriel  would  be  welcomed — for  I  feel  it  would 

be  joy 
To  be  buried  in  the  churchyard  where  I  worshipped 

when  a  boy. 

"  O'er  the  spot  where  they  will  lay  me,  no  loved  brother 
e'er  shall  weep, 

And  no  sister's  tears  shall  moisten  the  lone  grave  where 
I  must  sleep ; 

No  loved  one  will  plant  a  willow  that  its  leaves  may 
o'er  me  wave, 

And  no  hand  will  scatter  garlands  on  the  lonely  new- 
made  grave. 

"  Bend  thee  lower,  friendly  stranger ! — of  a  dearer  one 

I'd  speak  ; 
Even  now  I  feel  her  kisses  on  my  wan  and  wasted 

cheek  ; — 
Look  among  my  paintings  gently,  when  my  soul  has 

flown  above, 
And  the  fairest  face  you  find  there  is  the  face  of  her  I 

love. 

"If  by  chance  you  e'er  should  meet  her,  seek  her  side 

at  twilight's  hour, 
Break  the  tidings  to  her  gently,  for  she  is  a  fragile 

flower. 


THE    DYING   ARTIST.  13 

Tell  her,  stranger,  howl  perished   in  my  manhood's 

early  prime, 
How  you  laid  me  when  'twas  over  in  this  glorious 

Eastern  clime. 

"  Tell  her  how  I  toiled  and  struggled  but  to  carve 

myself  a  name, 
How  for  her  I  courted  fortune — how  for  her  I  wooed 

fame  ; 
How  her  picture  smiled  upon  me — even  labor  then  was 

sweet, 
For  I  thought  one  day  to  scatter  all  these  trophies  at 

her  feet. 

"  But  the  laurel-wreath  is  valueless — it  shades  a  dying 

brow, 
And  vain  the  world's  applause,  for  what's  ambition  to 

me  now  ? 
And  the  pictures  which  my  artist  eye  so  loved  to  linger 

o'er, 
Even  tliey  are  vain — they  will  not  make  my  darling 

love  me  more. 

"  Bend  thee  lower,  friendly  stranger  !  for  my  voice  is 

faint  and  weak, 
Kindly  move  these  golden  tresses  from  my  thin  and 

fevered  cheek  ; 
She  hath  twined  them,  stranger,  often,  with  her  fingers 

white  and  soft  ; — 
Clip  one  lock  from  off  the  forehead  that  her  lips  hath 

kissed  so  oft. 


14  THE    DYING    ARTIST. 

"  Tell  her  that  the  lock  was  severed  from  a  brow  all 
white  and  chill, 

That  I  pressed  it — ere  I  gave  it — to  the  lips  now  cold 
and  still ; 

And  tell  her,  when  you  bear  it  to  my  home  beyond  the 
seas, 

The  threads  were  fanned  all  softly  by  this  gentle  Eas 
tern  breeze. 

"  Tell  her  how  I  dreamed  last  evening  I  had  reached 
my  home  once  more — 

Side  by  side  we  two  were  sitting  'neath  the  old  vine- 
covered  door  ; — 

Tell  her  that  the  angels  beckon,  and  I  answer  to  the  call, 

Tell  her — "  here  his  lips  closed  softly  with  a  smile — 
and  that  was  all ! 

All  was  over — Love,  ambition,  care,  anxiety,  and  strife, 
The  sweet  promises  of  childhood,  and  the  hopes  of  later 

life. 

There  his  easel  where  he  left  it,  and  the  pencils  at  its  side, 
On  it  a  half-finished  painting  of  the  ruin  where  he  died. 

Painting  never  to   be  finished ! — how  you  wake  an 

anguished  thrill, 
For  the  hand  which  moved  the  pencil  lieth  wondrous 

cold  and  still. 
Ah !  in  vain  the  desert  stretches  far  to  East,  and  far 

to  West, 
For  his  feet  will  tread  it  never — he  is  taking  his  long 

rest. 


THE    DYING    ARTIST.  15 

Bitter  tears  are  slowly  coursing  down  his  Arab  ser 
vant's  cheek, 

As  he  calls  in  vain  the  master  whose  pale  lips  may 
never  speak  ; 

There  are  those  who'd  give  a  lifetime  if  with  him  they 
could  but  stand, 

To  gaze  upon  that  death-dimmed  eye,  and  kiss  that 
clay-cold  hand. 

Then  we  closed  his  eyelids  softly  in  the  thickly  coming 

gloom, 
Decently  those  pale  hands  folded — kindly  robed  him 

for  the  tomb ; 
Bitter  thoughts  our  hearts  were  swelling,  as  we  laid 

him  down  to  sleep 
In  that  lonely  grave  where  friend  or  kindred  ne'er 

shall  come  to  weep. 

In  that  lovely  Eastern  valley  cherished  through  all 

coming  time, 
There  we   laid  the  stranger  artist — wanderer  from  a 

distant  clime — 
With   no   name  to   tell  who   sleeps  there — far  from 

friends,  and  far  from  home, — 
But  the  angels  bright  will  find  him  when  the  wakening 

shall  come. 

Anxious  hearts  will  wait  his  coming,  and  the  star  of 

hope  grow  dim, 
When  the  evening  prayer  is  offered,  and  the  heart  goes 

out  to  him  ; 


16  THE    DYING    ARTIST. 

The)7  will  listen  for  a  footfall — they  will  listen  for  a 

tone — 
And  she  who  waited  long  for  him  must  go  through  life 

alone. 

Never  more  his  voice  shall  greet  them — evermore  his 

face  shall  be 
Hid  from  mortal  sight  forever,  in  a  grave  beyond  the 

sea; — 
They  will  wait,  but  wait  all  vainly  for  his  brightly 

beaming  smile ; 
He  they  loved  is  sweetly  sleeping  by  the  waters  of  the 

Nile. 


ALICE    MAY. 

'NEATH  the  shadows  of  an  oak, 

Sits  my  Alice  May. 
Fair-cheeked  beauty  now  is  she, 
Sitting  'neath  the  old  oak  tree, 
Golden  tresses  floating  free 

With  the  winds  at  play. 
Eyes  of  softest,  sweetest  blue, 
Heart  that  ne'er  a  sorrow  knew, 
There  she  sitteth  day  by  day, 

Gentle  Alice  May. 

Soft  the  streamlet  at  thy  feet 

Ripples,  Alice  May ! 
Zephyrs  low  the  flow'rets  move, 
Songsters  in  the  trees  above 
Chant  of  love — undying  love, 

All  the  livelong  day  ; 
And  the  heart  within  thy  breast, 
Throbbing  with  a  vague  unrest, 
Sings  the  same  sweet  summer  lay, 

Gentle  Alice  May ! 

Now  the  shadows  lengthen  there, 

Blue-eyed  Alice  May ! 
Low,  sad  music  of  the  pines, 
Breezes  murmuring  'mid  the  vines, 

(17) 


18  ALICE    MAY 


Tell  thec  that  the  sun  declines, 

And  'tis  close  of  day, — 
Still  he  conies  not !  and  thine  eye 
'Mid  the  hills  can  naught  descry  ; — 
From  thy  side  he  still  doth  stay, 
Gentle  Alice  May ! 

Aye,  he  conies  not ! — and  no  more, 

Trusting  Alice  May, 
Will  he  ever  seek  thy  side, 
He,  thy  young  heart's  joy  and  pride, 
He  has  won  another  bride, 

Fair  as  summer's  day. 
Still  the  beating  of  that  heart, 
Check  the  rising  tears  which  start : 
He  no  more  will  come  this  way, 

Gentle  Alice  May ! 

Thine  is  but  the  common  lot, 

Loving  Alice  May  ! 
All  of  earth  its  griefs  must  share, 
"  Vows  are  many — truth  is  rare," 
When  to  thee  they  seem  most  fair, 

Falser  still  are  they  : 
While  amid  the  hills  you  wait, — 
In  yon  castle  of  the  great, 
Kneeling  he  doth  homage  pay — 

Blue-eyed  Alice  May ! 


ALICE   MAT.  19 

Years  have  passed  ;  and  'neath  that  oak 

Sleeps  my  Alice  May. 
Fair-haired  beauty  once  was  she, 
Sitting  'neath  the  old  oak  tree  ; 
Calmly  now,  and  quietly, 

All  the  livelong  day, 
Sleeps  she  sweetly  'neath  its  shade, 
In  the  deep  and  silent  glade, 
And  the  sun  his  lingering  ray 

Casts  o'er  Alice  May. 

Little  moss-grown  grave  is  thine, 

Blue-eyed  Alice  May  ! 
Songsters  in  the  tree  o'erhead, 
Lonely  watchers  o'er  the  dead, 
Chant  above  thy  grassy  bed, 

All  the  livelong  day  : 
And  the  streamlet  at  thy  feet 
Murmurs  music  sad  and  sweet 
As  it  wanders  on  its  way, 

Lost,  lost  Alice  May  ! 


"I'LL   BE  THY  BRIDE." 

YES  !  take  my  hand — my  cold  and  passive  hand, 

The  vow  I  breathed  you  was  not  traced  in  sand  ; 

Too  well  I  know  'tis  registered  above, 

And  I  will  be  thy  bride — but  ask  not  love. 

The  word  is  but  a  mockery — on  my  ear 

It  once  was  breathed  by  lips  I  held  too  dear — 

But  I  forget — my  place  is  at  thy  side — 

These  dreams  must  pass  away — I'll  be  thy  bride  ! 

Come,  bind  the  ring  about  my  finger  now, 

And  twine  the  festive  garland  o'er  my  brow  ; 

Wreathe  orange  buds  amid  my  shining  hair, — 

A  bride  they  say  must  e'en  look  wondrous  fair  I 

And  I  in  yonder  gay  and  brilliant  scene, 

Will  for  the  moment  reign  a  worshipped  queen  : 

Oh,  heart !  within  thy  cells  my  secret  hide, 

For  I  have  breathed  the  words — "  I'll  be  thy  bride." 

-m 

No  answering  smile  thy  happy  smile  doth  meet, 
I  cannot  teach  my  wayward  heart  deceit ; 
My  fingers  do  not  tremble  in  thy  clasp, 
But  fall  all  lifeless  from  the  eager,  grasp. 
You  come  unsought,  and  unregretted  go, 
For  you  my  soul  no  tender  throb  may  know  ; 
And  when  thou'rt  here,  the  moments  slowly  glide, 
And  heavily  ; — yet — I  will  be  thy  bride. 

(20) 


"I'LL   BE  THY   BEIDE,"  21 

Once — when  life's  dial  had  not  lost  its  sun, 
My  trusting  heart  was  by  another  won  ; 
Yet,  like  a  flower  that  blossoms  but  a  day, 
Or  worthless  gift,  my  love  was  cast  away. 
None  knew  a  blight  had  fallen  on  my  heart, 
None  saw  the  bitter  tear  in  secret  start ; 
None  knew  but  one — alas,  for  woman's  pride  f 
It  makes  me  promise  I  will  be  thy  bride. 

For  'mid  the  gay  I  was  the  gayest  there, 
While  in  my  bosom  lay  this  chill  despair  ; 
And  when  I  met  him  there  with  her  he  loved, 
My  smile  was  bright — my  placid  brow  unmoved. 
And  when  he  bowed  his  head  to  whisper  low 
The  tender  words  he  breathed  me  long  ago  ; 
I  coiled  about  my  heart  the  serpent  pride, 
And  murmured  in  thy  ear,  "  I'll  be  thy  bride.7' 

She  leaned  upon  the  arm  once  mine,  while  I, 
Unrecognized,  was  carelessly  passed  by  ; 
And  yet,  I  trembled  not, — the  laugh  and  jest 
Well  served  to  hide  the  aching  in  my  breast. 
And  now; — we  meet  as  strangers,  calm  and  cold, 
Forgot  of  him  the  halcyon  days  of  old  ; — 
Can  I  forget,  though  she  is  at  his  side  ? 
Ah,  never — never  ; — yet — I'll  be  thy  bride. 

Then  take  my  hand,  my  passive  hand  in  thine, 
And  as  thy  bride  in  Fashion's  courts  I'll  shine  ; 
But  oh  !  my  wayward  heart  thou  ne'er  canst  claim, 
It  dwell  with  him  I  must  not,  dare  not  name  ! 


22  "  I'LL  BE  THY  BRIDE." 

This  golden  band  weighs  on  my  brow  like  lead, 
This  dress  seems  like  a  covering  for  the  dead — 
It  is  my  bridal  robe  ! — these  jewels  hide 
A  broken  heart ; — yet — I  will  be  thy  bride  ! 

Why  is  my  heart  so  lifeless  and  so  cold  ? 
I'm  not  the  first  who  sold  herself  for  gold  ; 
I'm  not  the  first  who  felt  a  love  divine 
In  vain — then  bowed  the  knee  at  Mammon's  shrine. 
My  hand  goes  with  my  vow — but  not  my  Jieart — 
Oh,  haunting  dreams,  I  pray  ye  now  depart ! 
Away,  sweet  memories  ! — here  at  my  side 
Come,  chosen  lover  !  I  will  be  thy  bride. 

'Twill  be  a  bonnie  sight  when  you  and  I 

Stand  at  yon  altar,  and  I  breathe  the  lie 

Which  binds  me  thine  through  all  life's  weary  years — 

Right  merrily  will  sound  those  village  cheers. 

And  he  will  call  me  by  another  name 

Than  that  my  childhood  knew.     I'll  smile  the  same  ! 

For  I  have  cast  my  love,  my  truth  aside 

For  tJiee  !  and  perjured  thus — PU  be  thy  bride  ! 


TO    PIC  COLO  MINI. 

BRIGHT  bird  of  Italia  !  sweet  empress  of  song  ! 
Like  a  gay  little  fairy  thou'rt  bounding  along 
On  the  stage  of  the  world  ;  just  as  sparkling  and  bright 
As  the  star  gems  that  dance  on  the  bosom  of  night. 

No  care  hath  e'er  darkened 
Thy  life's  sunny  hours  ; 

For  around  thy  young  pathway 

Spring  only  sweet  flowers  : 
The  world,  like  a  lover,  bends  low  at  thy  feet, 
And  crowns  thee  with  roses  the  fair  and  the  sweet. 

'Tis  bliss  to  behold  thee — 'tis  rapture  to  hear 
Thy  gay  notes  of  gladness,  so  soft  and  so  clear  ; 
To  watch  the  sweet  dimples  which  play  on  thy  face. 
Thy  artless  coquetting,  thy  beauty  and  grace  ; 

The  bright  smiles  which  play 
Round  thy  mouth  "  Hide  and  seek," 

And  the  flush  of  gay  rapture 

That  mantles  thy  cheek. 

Oh,  the  spell  of  enchantment  to  thee  doth  belong, 
Thou  fair  queen  of  beauty !  and  empress  of  song ! 

Ah !  well  may  the  world  which  so  worships  thee  now, 
Weave  songs  to  thy  genius,  and  bays  for  thy  brow  : 
May  the  laurel  which  long  thou  so  gayly  hast  worn, 
For  the  forehead  which  bears  it  have  never  a  thorn. 

(23) 


24  TO   PICCOLOMINI. 

Wherever  thou  goest 

May  Fame  meet  thee  there, 
And  crown  thee  with  garlands 

As  fadeless  as  fair. 

May  the  sweet  Piccolomini,  artless  and  gay, 
But  gather  the  roses  which  bloom  on  her  way. 

I  own  thy  enchantment— I  bow  to  thy  worth  ; 
I  hail  thee  the  loveliest  flower  of  earth ! 
And  a  poet's  glad  blessings  I  bring  to  thee  now, 
As  a  tribute  from  me — as  a  bud  for  thy  brow. 
I  hold  it  the  happiest 

Hour  I  have  known, 
When  around  me  like  star  gems 

Thy  smiles  sweetly  shone  : 
When  I  clasped  thy  soft  hand,  and  gazed  deep  in  thine 

eyes, 
As  bright  as  thine  own  clime — as  clear  as  its  skies. 

And  then,  when  at  evening  I  saw  thee  again, 
The  queen  of  the  audience — enjoying  thy  reign, 
As  artless  and  happy  as  any  glad  child, 
As  bright  as  a  seraph  from  heaven  beguiled 

By  mortals  to  linger 
Awhile  on  their  shore, 

And  glad  them  with  rapture 

They  ne'er  felt  before, — 

Oh !  my  heart  listened  spellbound — its  pulses  stood  still ; 
They  but  beat  at  thy  pleasure,  and  throbbed  at  thy  will. 

Ah  !  fair  as  the  pictures  to  artist  heart  given, 

And  bright  as  the  dream  which  the  bard  paints  of  heaven, 


TO   PICCOLOMINI.  25 

As  blushing,  as  happy  as  orange-wreathed  bride, 
Is  Italia's  song-bird,  its  joy  and  its  pride. 
Oh  !  the  miser  may  sigh 

For  the  name  wealth  bequeaths, 
And  the  statesman  delight 

In  his  proud  laurel  wreaths  ; — 
One  smile  of  the  bright  Piccolomini's  worth 
All  the  plaudits  of  praise — all  the  fortunes  of  earth. 

The  rose  of  the  spring  which  the  honey-bee  sips, 
Was  never  so  sweet  as  thy  musical  lips  ; 
The  clear  stars  which  light  up  our  soft  southern  skies, 
Are  shamed  by  the  brightness  which  beams  in  thine  eyes; 

No  flower  that  blooms 
In  our  sunny  land  now, 

Can  compare  with  the  beauty 

That  'circles  thy  brow  ; 

No  song-bird  that  sings  in  our  woodland  retreat, 
Ever  warbled  so  clearly,  so  gayly,  so  sweet. 

Then  hail,  Piccolomini !  beautiful  one ! 
May  never  a  shadow  obscure  thy  bright  sun  ; 
No  grief  steal  the  brightness  of  life's  sunny  hours. 
No  thorn  ever  lurk  in  thy  pathway  of  flowers  : 

May  thy  life  be  as  clear 
And  undimmed  as  that  star 

Which  smiled  on  thy  birth 

In  Italia  afar  : — 

May  pleasures  attend  thee,  where'er  thou  may'st  roam, 
In  the  land  of  the  stranger,  or  in  thine  own  home. 


26  TO   PICCOLOMINI. 

Oh  !  when  thou  shalt  come  glidin  5  back  o'er  the  main, 

In  love  will  America  greet  thee  again  ; 

And  oh,  Piccolomini !  tarry  not  long, 

We  will  pine  for  thy  artless  young  beauty  and  song. 

And  pray  thy  return — 
Then  take  my  farewell  ; 

It  is  sad  as  the  wailing 

That  breathes  in  the  shell  : — 

"  May  thy  life,  like  the  song  thou  didst  warble  this  even," 
With  warm  friends  around  thee,  glide  gently  to  heaven ! 


K  E  V  E  X  G  E  . 

AN      INDIAN      LEGEND. 

THE  sun  was  sinking  on  the  shore, 

And  shadows  dark  and  grim 
Crept  o'er  the  earth  :  one  star  alone, 

With  shadowy  light,  and  dim, 
Lighted  the  maiden  on  her  path 

Unto  the  "  trysting  tree," 
Where  oft  at  eve's  soft  hour  she  stole 

To  list  love's  gentle  plea. 

Oh  !  lovely  was  this  Indian  maid, — 

By  name,  The  Startled  Fawn, — 
Her  ebon  hair  was  black  as  night, 

Her  eyes  like  starlight  shone  : 
A  proud  chief's  promised  bride  was  she, 

And  yet  she  steals  apart 
To  meet  the  pale-faced  stranger,  who 

Had  won  her  trusting  heart. 

The  hours  slip  by  :  the  moon  is  down  ; 

Still  sit  they  side  by  side  ; 
And  lie  has  promised  soon  to  make 

The  Indian  girl  his  bride  ; 
And,  trusting  in  his  love,  she  goes 

The  world  with  him  to  roam, 
And  leaves  without  a  sigh  the  woods 

Which  made  .her  childhood's  home. 


28  REVEXGE. 

The  light  canoe  is  on  the  stream ; 

The  purple  wave  divides, 
And,  like  a  feather,  noiselessly 

It  down  the  water  glides. 
She  gazes  on  the  loved  one's  face 

With  mingled  love  and  pride, 
And  dreams  of  blissful  hours,  when  she 

Shall  be  his  worshipped  bride. 

But  see !  behind  them  on  the  shore 

The  dark  pursuers  come ! 
The  light  reveals  their  dusky  brows — 

They  cross  the  whitening  foam. 
"  Swim  to  the  shore  !"  the  maiden  cried  ; 

"  They  will  not  harm  me — fly, 
Star  of  my  sky  !  light  of  my  life  ! — 

For  me  thou  shalt  not  die !" 

One  wild  embrace,  and  he  is  gone  ; 

The  maiden  weeps  alone  ; 
She  sees  him  gain  the  distant  shore, 

Then  paddles  slowly  on. 
For  in  the  distance  dark  she  hears 

The  chieftain's  angry  call ; 
And  she  must  meet  his  dreaded  frown, 

And  brave  the  wrath  of  all. 

Months  pass  away — -long,  dreary  months  ; 

The  pale  face  comes  no  more  ; 
The  roses  fade  upon  her  cheeks, 

And  even  hope  is  o'er. 


REVENGE.  29 

Her  step,  once  agile  as  the  deer's, 

Is  not  so"  lightsome  now  ; 
And  melancholy  sits  upon 

The  Indian  maiden's  brow. 

They  tell  her  that  a  pale-faced  girl 

Doth  share  his  IOVB  and  lot ; 
And  she,  who  braved  even  death  for  him, 

Has  long  since  been  forgot. 
Thine  is  a  common  history, 

Poor,  timid  Startled  Fawn  ; 
Like  all  who  love  too  well,  thy  love 

Is  back  upon  thee  thrown. 

"  0  Unseen  Spirit !  hear  my  cries," 

The  Indian  maiden  said  ; 
"  I  fain  would  be  revenged  on  him, 

Then  numbered  with  the  dead." 
Even  while  she  speaks  she  hears  the  shout 

Which  tells  a  captive  caught ; 
And  to  the  wigwam,  powerless. 

A  pale-faced  foe  is  brought. 

Alone  among  that  warlike  tribe 

The  captive  white  man  stands  : 
All  downcast  is  his  eagle  eye, 

And  fetters  bind  his  hands  : 
The  dusky  chiefs  look  sternly  on. 

Their  hearts  no  pity  feel  ; 
He  killed  the  bravest  of  their  tribe, 

And  scowls  his  fate  reveal. 


30  REVENUE. 

The  Startled  Fawn  has  heard  it  all, 

She  knows  the  once-loved  voice  ; 
'Tis  he,  the  false  one,  who  had  been 

Her  spirit's  early  choice. 
She  sees  the  angry,  scowling  glance 

Her  tribe  upon  her  cast, 
And  fiercely  whispers,  "  It  is  well  ; 

I'll  be  revenged  at  last." 

The  night  comes  on — a  black,  black  night ; 

No  star  is  seen  above  ; — 
The  dark-eyed  maiden  seeketh  him 

Who  won  her  earliest  love. 
His  arms  are  pinioned  to  his  side 

With  fetters  strong  and  fast ; 
And  bowed  in  shame  that  lofty  head, 

Whose  triumph  now  is  past. 

He  starts — looks  upward — sees  her  there  ; — 

"  Forgive  the  past,"  he  cried  ; 
"  To-night  we'll  seek  a  foreign  land — 

I'll  make  thee  there  my  bride. 
Oh,  loose  my  fetters,  for  the  love 

You  once  to  me  did  bear  ; 
We'll  journey  to  my  distant  home, 

And  I  will  wed  thee  there." 

She  loosed  the  bonds  with  seeming  love, 

Yet  on  her  lips,  the  while, 
There  lingered,  as  in  mockery, 

A  curious,  bitter  smile  ; 


REVENGE.  31 

With  trembling  hands,  but  face  all  calm, 

She  set  the  captive  free, 
Then  whispered  softly  in  his  ear, 

"  Be  silent — follow  me." 

And,  hand  in  hand,  the  silent  woods 

Their  solitary  way 
They  took — not  looking  once  behind, 

And  not  a  word  did  say. 
The  hungry  wolf  howled  round  their  path — 

They  heard  the  owlet's  scream  ; 
And  not  a  star  of  heafen  sent  forth 

A  single  friendly  gleam. 

And  dismal  was  the  forest  dark, 

And  drear  its  loneliness  ; 
And  in  the  tangled  beds  of  grass 

They  heard  the  serpent's  hiss. — 
And  from  its  wicked  eyes  there  came 

A  look  of  savage  hate 
On  him  who  with  the  Indian  maid 

Thus  blindly  followed  fate. 

And  threatening  clouds  now  veiled  the  skies, 

The  thunder  shook  high  heaven, 
The  lightning  gleamed  ;  and  to  their  haunts 

The  fierce  wild  beasts  were  driven. 
Yet,  while  the  elements  thus  raged, 

The  wanderers  wandered  on. 
The  pale-face  following  with  fear 

His  a-uidc— The  Startled  Fawn. 


He  fancied  he  could  faintly  hear 

The  angry  cascade's  roar, 
Where  o'er  the  stern  and  beaten  rock 

The  rushing  waters  pour  : 
And  when  he  whispered  her  his  fears, 

She  laughed  in  silent  glee  ; 
But  murmured  fondly,  as  before, 

"  Fear  not,  love — Follow  me  1" 

Upon  the  cascade's  verge  they  stood — 

The  rock  so  high  and  steep  : 
Too  late  he  saw  !-— she  grasped  his  hand 

And  took  the  fatal  leap. 
Down — down  they  go  !  and  loudly  shrieks 

The  angry  water  wraith  : 
The  pale-face  and  The  Startled  Fawn 

Are  joined  at  last — in  death ! 


WHAT  IS  LIFE? 

THE  sun  was  slowly  sinking  o'er  the  western  Mils 
away, 

As  I  saw  a  little  maiden  in  the  forest  wilds  at  play  : 

The  sunbeams  kissed  her  forehead,  and  kissing  lingered 
there, 

As  loving  to  rest  on  the  brow  of  one  so  strangely  fair. 

She  tossed  a  leaflet  on  the  stream — then  watched  it 
glide  along, 

And  murmured  plaintively  a  snatch  of  some  old  nurs 
ery  song  ;— 

Her  dark  eyes  beamed  unquietly — and  the  soft,  rising 
breast 

Seemed  throbbing  high,  and  beating  with  a  wild  and 
vague  unrest : 

Not  hers  to  seek  companions — with  the  singing  birds, 
and  flowers  ; 

In  some  far  dell  she  passed  the  long  and  idly  dream 
ing  hours, — 

Twining  chaplets  for  her  forehead,  plucking  the  sweet- 
scented  bays, 

Holding  converse  sweet  with  nature — learning  of  her 
all  her  ways. 

The  life-blood  of  the  sun  welled  out — the  moon,  his 
lovely  queen, 

In  golden  chariot  rode  the  heavens,  all  calm,  and  all 
serene. 

•>*  (33) 


34  \VIIAT    IS    LIFE  V 

The  child  reached   forth  her  arms,  and   cried  :    "  O 

moon,  free  from  all  strife, 
Be  friendly  to  the  mortal  born,  and  tell  me,  What  is 

life  ?  " 
The  Eastern  idol  seemed  to  smile  as  though  the  voice 

she  heard, 
But  hid  her  face  behind  a  cloud,  and  uttered — not  a 

word ! 


I  saw  the  maiden    once  again — 'twas   in  the  festive 

throng  ; 
'Mid  proud  and  jewelled  guests  she  glided  gracefully 

along, 
And  music  floated  on  the  breeze ;  and  in  that  brilliant 

room, 
Rare  plants  from  many  a  foreign  clime  exhaled  a  rich 

perfume. 
Curved,  rosy  lips  are   smiling   there,  and  dark  eyes 

brightly  glance, 
And  white-robed  forms  are  whirling  in  the  gay  and 

giddy  dance — 
And  many  lovely  ones  are  there,  but  none  so  fair,  I 

ween, 
As  she  who  floats  amid  the  crowd,  by  nature  born  a 

queen! 

She  looks  out  from  the  window  with  a  long,  expectant 

gaze, 
Unmindful  of  the  murmurs,  and  the  whispered  words 

of  praise. 


WHAT    IS    LIFE?  35 

And  while  sweet  notes  of  music  in  soft  numbers  up 
ward  roll, 
And  night's  queen  rose  calm  and  quietly — thus  spake 

the  maiden's  soul  : 
"0  moon,  once  more  I  greet  thee ! — I  have  sought 

the  giddy  throng, 
Have   mingled   in    the   merry  dance,  and  joined  the 

festive  song, 
Smiled  with  the  young  and  heartless — -jested  with  the 

thoughtless  old  ; 
But  all  around  I  found  deceit,  and  callous  hearts,  and 

cold  : 
I've  torn  the  mask  from  hollow  hearts,  and  viewed  the 

scene  beneath, 
Have  watched  the  serpent  coiled  within  the  soft  and 

graceful  wreath. 
The  pen  of  childhood  painted  me  a  picture  bright  of 

bliss— 

I  seek  it  vainly — surely  life  hath  nobler  aims  than  this. 
The  painted  goddess  Pleasure,  I  have  seen  in  colors 

true. 
And  I  loathe  the  giddy  siren,  and  all  who  her  paths 

pursue  ; 
My  soul  is  dark  within    me ! — canst  thou  quell  my 

spirit's  strife  ? 
0  patient   moon  ! — my  early  friend  ! — now   tell    me, 

What  is  life  ?" 
The  breeze  among  the  green-leaved  pines  sighed  forth 

a  low,  sad  wail — 
The  moon  was  silent  as  before,  and  made  a  cloud  her 

veil. 


36  \VHAT    IS    LIFE? 

And  years  rolled  o'er  the  maiden — 'mid  the  noble  ones 

of  earth, 
Her  woman's  name  was  numbered,  and  all  owned  her 

mental  worth  ; 
Fame's  scroll,  that  lure  to  Genius,  waved  proudly  on 

the  air, 
And  bore  the  gentle  maiden's  name  in  flaunting  colors 

there. 
Even  those  who  shunned  her  side  before,  chimed  loudly 

in  her  praise, 
And  lofty  bards  made  her  the  theme  of  soft  and  gentle 

lays  : 
Old  age,  and  youth,  and  knighthood,  low  unto  her  did 

bow, 
While  the  laurel  wreath  drooped  gracefully  upon  her 

snowy  brow. 
Oft  at  the  hour  of  midnight  she  touched  her  wayward 

lyre, 

And  breathed  on  it  with  spirit  touched  by  true  Parnas 
sian  fire — 
A   low,  sad   strain   of  music  was   caught  by   echoes 

mild, 
And  Fame  the  proud  smiled  sweetly  on  this  her  favored 

child. 
She  cast  aside  the  harp — alas !    its  sad,  complaining 

strain 
Awakened   buried   longings  from  their  early  tombs 

again  : 
She  sought  the  vine-clad  lattice — on  the  sleeping  city 

gazed, 
And  her  proud  dark  eyes  to  heaven  once  more  unqui- 

etlv  were  raised  : 


\VHAT    IS    LIFE?  37 

"  0    moon !    teach   me   the   secret  of  thy   calm   and 

quiet  face, 

Thou'rt  still  the  same,  though  o'er  thy  brow  the  swift- 
winged  shadows  chase ; 
Thou  comest  from  behind  the  cloud,  still  bright,  and 

still  serene, 
And  smilest  on  me  still  the  same,  thou  meek  and  lovely 

queen ! 
I  have  roved  in  scenes  of  pleasure,  till,  disgusted  with 

it  all, 
My  sickened  spirit  turned  away  ;  and  darkness  like  a 

pall 
Came  o'er  my  heart  once  trusting ; — then    I    wildly 

wooed  proud  fame, 
Till  she  stooped  to  kiss  my  forehead,  and  gave  me  the 

deathless  name ; 
I   loathe    the  hackneyed    compliments,  all   studiedly 

rehearsed, 

And  but  a  mockery  to  my  ear  comes  the  loud  trumpet- 
burst. 
Fame   cannot   satisfy   my   soul,    or   hush  its  longing 

cry  ; 
It  drinks  the  life-blood  of  the  heart,  and  leaves  it  bare 

and  dry. 
The  laurel  droops  in  mocking  o'er  a  pale  and  withered 

brow, 
And  furrows  premature  are  there — ah !  ivhat  shall  glad 

me  now  ? 
0    moon !    pale,  silent  watcher   in  the  midnight  sky 

above ! 
Fortune   and   fame  alike  are  vain — I  die  for  hn-mcat 

Jove." 


38  WHAT    IS    LIFE? 

I  saw  her  once  again  in  life — 'twas  in  a  shaded  bower  ; 
There  bloomed  around  her  pathway  many  a  sweet  and 

rich-hued  flower — 
And  by  her  side  was  one  she  loved  : — her  prayer  was 

answered  now, 
And   ardent,  burning  kisses   were  imprinted  on  her 

brow. 
The  hours  seemed  but  moments,  so  swift  they  danced 

along, 
The  flowers  were  lovlier — ne'er  before  so  sweet  seemed 

woodland  song. 
That  night  she  whispered  to  the  moon  :  "  Hushed  is  my 

spirit's  strife, 
And  I  will  ask  of  thee  no  more,  pale  watcher,  what  is 

life !" 

A  change  came  o'er  my  dreaming — he  the  idol  had 
departed, 

Had  cast  her  trusting  love  away,  and  left  her  broken 
hearted  ; 

And  broken  now  were  all  the  vows  once  registered 
above — 

He  had  taught  her  trusting  spirit  the  deceit  of  human 
love. 

And  hers  was  but  the  common  lot — too  oft  the  wheels 
of  pride 

Have  crushed  the  tender  flower  of  love  until  it  droop 
ed,  and  died. 

Now  wild  and  glassy  were  the  eyes  she  upward  raised 
to  heaven — 

"  0  moon !  pale,  quiet  watcher !  my  soul  has  wildly 
striven, 


WHAT   IS    LIFE  ?  39 

My  life  has  been  a  failure — a  bitter  mockery, — 
I  cast  it  off — 'tis  all  a  false  and  glittering  pageantry  ; 
I  have  found  it  but  a  shadow,  a  false,  unreal  dream, 
Its  all  of  happiness  a  brief  and  transitory  gleam  :  — 
The   world   is   cold  and  pitiless — a  scene  of  endless 

strife, — 
Ah  !  well  you  might  be  silent  when  I  asked  you  what 

is  life!" 

And  once  again  I  saw  her — this  time  I  looked  my  last : 
A  strange,  unreal  beauty  o'er  the  pallid  brow  was  cast ; 
Death  had  come  a  kind  releaser,  and  had  given  her  his 

rest — 
Folded  were  her  pale  hands  meekly,  o'er  a  still  and 

pulseless  breast. 
She  had  never  sought  Religion  as  a  balm  for  aching 

pain, 
And  pleasure,   fortune,  fame,  and  love,  alike  to   her 

were  vain  : 
With  her  question  still  unanswered,  life  had  passed 

from  her  away, 
And  the  moon  upon  a  white-robed  corpse  sent  down  a 

golden  ray. 


CARRIE   BELL. 

HAVE  you  seen  my  Carrie  Bell  ? 

Hair  of  gold,  and  eyes  of  blue  ; 
Heart  where  evil  ne'er  might  dwell  ; 

Cheek   of  soft  and  roseate  hue  ; 
Light  curls  floating  on  the  air  ; 

Voice  charmed  to  banish  sadness  ; 
Brow  that  never  knew  a  care  ; 

Lips  that  ever  breathe  of  gladness  ; — 
Wanderer,  now  I  pray  you  tell, 
Have  you  seen  my  Carrie  Bell  ? 

Have  you  seen  her  ? — quickly  tell, 

Bird  of  notes  the  free  and  sweet ; 
A  fair  maid  called  Carrie  Bell, 

Did  you  in  your  wanderings  meet  ? 
Did  you  lend  to  her  your  voice, 

Bird  that  through  the  heavens  soarest  ? 
And  to  tint  her  cheek  the  choice, 

Rose  that  blossoms  in  the  forest  ? 
If  'tis  so,  I  pray  thee,  tell, 
For  I  love  this  Carrie  Bell. 

Have  you  seen  her  ?     Answer  well, 

For  she  is  a  winsome  thing  ; 
And  her  gay-toned  carols  swell 

Like  a  bird's  of  plumaged  wing. 

(40 


CARRIE    BELL.  41 

In  her  hand  she  holds  a  lyre, 

As  she  wanders  'mid  the  roses ; 
In  her  eyes,  which  beam  with  fire, 

Some  new  charm  each  day  discloses : — 
Soon,  for  I  am  anxious,  tell — 
Have  you  seen  my  Carrie  Bell  ? 

Have  you  seen  her  ?     Ocean's  shell 

Lent  its  hue  to  paint  her  cheek  ; 
And  with  heart  of  truth  I  tell, 

Fairer  one  you'd  vainly  seek. 
Well  I  know  some  violet — 

Do  not  say  'tis  idle  dreaming — 
When  its  leaves  with  dew  were  wet, 

Gave  its  hue  to  eyes  so  beaming  : — 
And  I  know  the  same  you'd  tell, 
Had  you  seen  my  Carrie  Bell. 

In  a  land — a  land  of  flowers — 

Dwells  my  winsome  Carrie  Bell ; 
And  in  twilight's  witching  hours, 

Her  sweet  wood-notes  upward  swell. 
In  her  eyes  bright  dew-drops  glisten — 

When  you  see  you  will  believe ; 
And  the  angels  love  to  listen 

When  she  strikes  her  harp  at  eve. 
For  your  heart,  'twill  not  be  well, 
If  you  see  my  Carrie  Bell. 


THE   DEATH    SCENE. 

'TWAS  night  : — a  wail  swept  through  the  clouded  sky, 
Swaying  the  vines — the  frail,  neglected  vines — 
And  moaning  wildly  through  deserted  halls, 
With  shrieks  as  hoarse  as  those  which  come  from  souls 
That  find  no  rest  on  earth. 

A  few  faint  stars 

Were  twinkling  in  the  heavens — alas  !  their  light 
Seemed  but  a  mockery — and  the  restless  winds  — 
Which  onward  swept  o'er  valley,  hill,  and  plain, 
Strewing  dead  leaves,  and  scattering  faded  flowers, 
Like  conqueror  proud — sounded  a  funeral  dirge 
For  summer  dead,  and  tttee.     The  silver  moon, 
Like  a  pale  weeper,  veiled  her  glorious  face, 
And  kindly  drew  o'er  her  resplendent  brow 
A  black,  black  cloud,  lest  her  bright  glance  should  mock 
Thy  last  repose.     A  faint  and  sweet  perfume 
Rose  from  those  scented  violets  which  were  torn 
From  their  wild  woodland  home — where  summer  birds 
I  lad  wooed  them  'neath  the  green  oak's  spreading  shade. 
And  in  the  soft  and  stilly  twilight  hour 
Told  tales  of  love — to  deck  thy  pallid  brow 
For  its  last  resting-place. 

The  room  was  dark  ; 

Grim  shadows  nestled  in  its  corners,  while 
A  dim.  religions  light,  with  mellowed  rays, 
(42) 


THE    DEATH    SCENE.  43 

Like  the  soft  kisses  of  a  moonbeam,  lay 
Upon  thy  snow-white  couch.     But  in  my  heart 
No  such  sweet  light  was  shed — for  chill  despair 
Had  wrapped  me  in  its  folds,  and  with  stern  grasp 
("rushed  all  life's  sunlight  out.     The  star  of  Hope 
ihul  fallen  from  its  throne — the  rose  of  joy 
Lay  faded,  pale,  and  dead  ! 

I  stood  alone ! 

Alone  with  my  deep  grief ! — I  could  not  brook 
An  eye  save  mine  should  gaze  upon  thy  brow, 
So  cold,  so  still  in  death.     Nor  could  I  bear 
A  hand  less  gentle  than  my  own  to  close 
Those  waxen  eyelids  o'er  thine  orbs  of  blue. 
Thy  cheek  was  cold — cold  to  my  kisses  warm  ; 
And  gave  no  answering  kiss  those  voiceless  lips, 
That  nevermore  may  breathe  love-words  to  me. 
Thy  glorious  eyes,  where  genius  sat  enthroned, 
Were  blank,  and  fixed  in  death — their  brightness  now 
Had  no  expression  :  and  those  lily  hands, 
That  once  clasped  mine  with  pressure  warm  of  love, 
Lay  cold  and  rigid. 

Oh !  how  beautiful 

Thou  wert  even  then  !     Death  did  not  dare  to  mar 
What  God  had  made  so  gloriously  fair  ; 
He  dared  not  rob  from  thy  cold,  silent  lips 
The  crimson  tint ;  or  steal  from  thy  soft  cheek 
The  rose's  bloom.     A  smile  still  lingered  there  ; 
The  smile  with  which,  as  some  sweet  poet  sings, 
Thy  Maker  made  thee — and  with  love  divine 
Left  on  thy  face.     It  hovered  still  in  death 
Around  thy  beauteous  mouth,  as  sunbeams  rest 


44  THE    DEATH    SCENE. 

With  glorious  splendor  on  the  mountain-top 
Where  snow  must  ever  dwell.     The  summer  buds, 
White  as  thy  guileless  soul — an  emblem  iit — 
Lay  on  thy  pulseless  breast,  and  round  thy  brow  ; 
For  they,  from  one  who  would  have  died  for  thee. 
Were  love's  last  gift.     And  they  were  frail  like  thee- 
Made  for  the  sunshine,  not  the  shade  of  life, 
And  all  unfit  to  battle  with  the  storm. 
The  first  rude  touch  of  winter's  icy  breath 
Withered  their  beauty. — grief,  if  thou  hadst  lived, 
Had  withered  thine. 

My  soul  was  dark,  so  dark  ! 
For  memory,  like  a  gentle,  brooding  dove, 
Folded  her  wings  about  her  broken  shrine 
Where  joy  lay  dead,  and  sang  all  mockingly 
Of  withered  hopes,  and  blighted  dreams  of  love, — 
When  in  sweet  childhood,  fancy  painted  bright 
Deceitful  pictures  of  a  future  bliss  : 
Those  pictures  now  are  colorless  and  dark, 
For  Truth  has  touched  them  with  his  magic  wand, 
And  with  a  power  all-potent  turned  each  hue 
To  the  deep  darkness  of  a  starless  night ! 
In  vain  I  clasped  my  slender  hands  and  prayed  : 
"  Oh  !  leave  me,  memory — leave  me  to  my  fate  : 
'Tis  mockery  to  sing  of  cheerful  fires 
To  one  who  freezes — mockery  to  tell 
Of  viands  rare  to  the  pale  wretch  that  starves — 
Mockery  to  speak  in  joyous,  silvery  tones 
Of  childhood's  purer  days,  to  one  whose  youth 
Lies  far  behind  him — worse  than  mockery 
To  chant  of  love  and  happiness  to  me 
Whose  heart  is  crushed  !" 


THE    DEATH    SCENE.  45 

Pale  one  !  I  envied  thee 

The  calm  and  quiet  sleep  that  knows  no  dreams  ; 
I  envied  thee  thy  long,  long  rest  in  yonder  churchyard: 
For  oh  !  'tis  better  far  to  perish  young, 
Than  live  to  see  each  rosy  wreath  of  joy 
Fade  from  thy  heart  away.     'Tis  better  far 
To  lie  with  folded  hands,  and  pulseless  breast, 
.\  ud  heart  that  knows  no  sorrow,  than  to  live 
Unloved  and  friendless  through  life's  weary  days  ; 
With  a  proud  soul  that  beats  against  its  fetters, 
Like  some  caged  song-bird,  pining  for  the  woods 
It  ne'er  shall  see  again  ;  those  boundless  skies, 
Where  once  it  soared  all  light  and  free  of  wing, 
And  moved  its  mate  with  the  sweet,  tender  songs 
That  heaven  had  taught  it ;  pining  for  the  flowers 
'Twill  nestle  in  no  more  ;  and  pouring  forth 
A  dirge-like  wail  in  low  and  mournful  voice, 
That's  destined  by  stern  fate  ne'er  to  ring  out 
In  joyance  more. 

Ah  !  yes  :  'tis  better  far 
To  die  while  yet  the  youthful  blood  is  warm  ; 
While  the  young  heart  is  weaving  fantasies, 
Than  live  to  know  them  false.     'Tis  better  far 
To  die  ere  the  foul  breath  of  calumny 
Had  poisoned  thy  soul's  peace,  than  live  to  be 
Like  yonder  porcelain  vase,  marred  by  a  breath. 
Better  to  die,  ere  yet  the  adder's  sting 
Had  touched  thy  heart ;  or  the  vile  serpent  found 
Thy  Eden-flowers.     0  yes  !  I  can  rejoice 
That  thou  art  gone,  where  sin  shall  never  come, 
And  sorrow  dare  not  enter.     It  is  well 
That  sister-angels  claimed  thee  in  thy  youth  ; 


46  THE    DEATH    SCENE. 

For  oh  !  I  feel  I'd  rather  mourn  thee  dead, 
Than  mourn  Ihee  living ! 

Lost  one  !  would  I  too 

Could  sleep  beside  thee  now — 0,  would  I  too 
Could  thus  depart  from  earth,  and  be  at  rest ; 
Away  from  all  the  heart-ache  and  the  pain 
'Tis  mine  to  bear.     Would  that  the  Father  now 
Would  call  me  hence,  and  bid  me  cast  aside 
The  woes  a  cruel  destiny  entailed 
On  those,  the  weak  and  sensitive,  for  whom 
No  kindly  heart  beats  with  returning  throb  : 
Who  feel  their  souls  could  know  the  deepest  bliss, 
Yet  have  that  bliss  denied  ;  and  every  cup 
Of  joy  broken  ere  it  pass  the  lips  : 
Who,  doomed  by  fate  resistless,  wander  on 
Through  all  the  thorns  in  life's  dark  pilgrimage, 
Unaided  and  alone.     0,  would  that  I, 
As  in  the  restless  midnight  thus  I  weep, 
Could  sleep  beside  thee  in  thine  early  grave, 
And  waken  to  life's  misery  no  more  ! 


TELL    ME    WHY. 

WHEREFORE  is  thy  heart  thus  lonely  ? 

Wherefore  is  thine  eye  thus  dim  ? 
Wherefore  lift  thine  eyelids  only 

To  those  things  which  tell  of  him  ? 
Knowest  thou  not  that  one.  still  fairer ,- 

One  who  beauty's  gift  can  claim, 
Must  forever  be  the  sharer 

Of  his  heart,  his  home,  his  name  ? 

Wherefore  look  with  silent  weeping 

On  the  still  and  solemn  night, 
Where  lone  stars,  their  vigil  keeping, 

Guide  the  wanderer  aright  ? 
'Neath  their  rays  he  wooes  another, 

Fairer,  lovelier  than  thou  : 
Pride  thy  hopeless  love  must  smother, 

For  despair  is  on  thee  now. 

Wherefore  press  thy  hands  thus  madly 

To  thy  wildly  beating  heart  ? 
Wherefore  do  thy  tears  thus  sadly 

From  their  secret  fountains  start  ? 
From  that  heart  his  image  banish — 

Take  one  look — it  is  thy  last ; 
Every  ray  of  joy  must  vanish, 

For  thy  wild,  sweet  dream  is  past. 

(47) 


48  TELL   ME   WHY? 

Wherefore  madly  kiss  his  letters 

Where  he  still  doth  call  thee  dear  ? 
Wherefore  thus  embrace  thy  fetters 

With  the  death-clasp  of  despair  ? 
Genius  God  to  thee  has  given — 

Fold  thy  hands  in  humble  prayer  ; 
Happiness  belongs  to  heaven, 

And  thou  ne'er  canst  claim  it  here. 

Strange  that  one  so  proud  and  gifted, 

Thus  should  fondly  cling  to  earth, 
With  its  soul  in  worship  lifted 

To  a  thing  of  mortal  birth  ! — 
Rouse  thee,  pale  one !  from  this  power, 

From  the  storm  that  wars  within  ; 
Give  thy  clay-god  up  this  hour, 

For  idolatry  is  sin. 

Love  to  thee  thy  fate  denieth, 

'Tis  a  blossom  from  above  ; 
And  in  vain  thy  spirit  crieth 

For  the  joys  of  human  love. 
All  thine  wild,  mad  worship  bridle, 

And  no  more  thus  prostrate  bend  ; 
For  thine  unsuspecting  idol 

Claims  thee  only  as  a  friend  ! 


LITTLE    ANNIE. 

"  There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended. 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there ; 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  hath  one  vacant  chair." 

ONCE  more  around  the  social  hearth 

Will  loved  ones  meet ; 
Once  more  with  cheerful  tones  of  mirth 

Each  other  greet : 
But  oh  !  when  smiles  shall  wreathe  the  face, 

There'll  fall  a  tear  ; 
For  there  will  be  one  vacant  place — 

She  is  not  here  ! 

We've  brightly  pictured  many  a  day 

This  Christmas  scene  ; 
And  thought  we'd  deck  the  walls  so  gay 

With  evergreen  : — 
And  she,  the  dearest — loved  of  all — 

These  joys  would  share  ; 
No  wonder  bitter  tear-drops  fall, — 

She  is  not  here  I 

The  little  socks  we'll  fill,  with  glee, 

On  Christmas  eve  ; 
But  'mid  them  one  will  missing  be, 
v.  Our  hearts  to  grieve. 

3  (49) 


50  LITTLE    AXX1K. 

The  Christmas  bright  will  shortly  come, 

Loved  ones  appear — 
But  what  a  blight  is  on  our  home  ! 

She  is  not  here  I 

Among  the  little  ones  that  play 

Upon  the  green  ; 
One  tiny  hat  with  ribbons  gay 

Will  not  be  seen  ; 
And,  in  the  joyous  laugh  and  shout 

Which  fills  the  air. 
One  little  voice  will  not  ring  out — 

She  is  not  here  ! 

And  when  around  the  fireside  warm 

We  crowd  at  night ; 
I  know  we'll  miss  one  little  form 

That  blessed  our  sight. 
The  mother,  with  her  face  of  woe. 

Will  breathe  a  prayer  ; 
The  father's  silent  tears  will  flow — 

She  is  not  here  ! 

And  when,  with  many  a  skip  and  bound, 

And  hearts  of  glee, 
The  other  children  gather  round 

The  Christmas-tree, — 
A  shade  of  grief  will  intevene. 

And  clouds  appear  ; 
The  sweetest  face  will  not  be  seen — 

She  is  not  here  ! 


LITTLE    ANNIE.  51 


The  little  toys — the  tress  of  hair 

To  us  bereft 
Of  what  was  once  so  sweet  and  fair, 

Are  all  that's  left : 
No  more  we'll  hear  those  tiny  feet 

Upon  the  stair  ; 
Or  turn  that  loving  kiss  to  meet — 

She  is  not  here  ! 

To  us  the  Christmas  brings  no  joy  : 

Of  one  so  fair, 
We  only  see  the  broken  toy 

And  empty  chair  ! 
But  up  in  yonder  clime  above, 

All  free  from  care, 
The  angels  shout  in  strains  of  love, — 

"  Your  lamb  is  here  !" 


TO  MY  LITTLE  CANARY  BIRD. 

THOU  dost  not  pine  for  the  greenwood,  bird, 

For  a  cage  was  thy  home  alway  ; 
Thou  hast  never  been  out  where  the  musical  fount 

Casts  upward  its  delicate  spray  ; 
Thou  hast  ne'er  watched  the  wild  flowers  bloom 

In  their  home,  the  mossy  dell  : 
Thou  hast  no  song  for  the  violet  blue, 

Nor  a  tale  of  the  greenwood  to  tell. 

There  mingles  no  wail  in  thy  song,  sweet  bird, 

Of  a  home  by  the  spoiler's  hand 
Robbed  of  its  beauty — made  desolate — 

Of  a  scattered,  broken  band  : 
Merry  and  blithe  is  thy  little  heart. 

Merry  and  blithe  thy  song  ; 
Sweet  bird,  it  would  have  no  music  for  me, 

Had  I  won  it  by  cruel  wrong. 

Dost  thou  ever  sigh  for  liberty,  bird  ? 

Does  thy  cage  a  prison  seem  ? 
Dost  thou  long  for  a  seat  on  those  mossy  boughs, 

Lit  up  by  the  sun's  bright  beam  ? 
Dost  wish  to  unfurl  thy  tiny  wing, 

And  soar  with  the  feathered  throng  ? 
Oh  !  say  not  so,  for  the  sportsman's  aim 

Might  silence  thy  little  song. 


TO    MY    LITTLE    CANARY    BIRD.  53 

Or  if  thou  wert  out  in  the  world,  sweet  bird, 

Thou  wouldst  pine  for  a  gentle  mate, 
As  the  deathless  soul  for  that  sister-soul— 

Do  birds  escape  such  fate  ? 
Some  little  creature  with  plumaged  wing, 

That  lodged  in  the  bough  above, 
Thou  wouldst  hover  around  at  eventide, 

And  woo  with  thy  song  of  love. 

And  perhaps,  sweet  bird,  from  thy  musical  notes 

She  might  coldly  turn  away  ; 
For  so  human  beings  too  often  do — 

Are  birds  more  kind  than  they  ? 
Or  perhaps  she  might  listen  in  fond  deceit 

To  thy  wildly  gushing  song, 
And  win  thy  heart  with  an  artful  lay, 

To  break  it  by  bitter  wrong  ! 

Brother  nor  sister  hast  thou,  sweet  bird, 

Brothers  and  sister  have  I  ; 
But  one  is  under  the  grassy  mound, 

And  some  'neath  a  distant  sky  ; 
And  so,  as  our  fates  are  something  akin, 

We  will  love  each  other  more  ; 
As  two  lone  mariners  cast  alike 

On  a  desolate,  foreign  shore. 

Lover  nor  friend  of  thy  kind  hast  thou, 

Lover  and  friends  have  I  ; 
The  one  is  many  a  league  from  me, 

The  others  would  speedily  fly 


54  TO    MY    LITTLE    CANARY    BIRD. 

If  a  storm  should  come  ; — then  oh  !  sweet  bird, 

We  will  love  each  other  well  ; 
Thou  wilt  sing  for  me — and  I  thy  praise 

In  a  flood  of  rhyme  will  tell. 

I  will  sing  tvith  thee,  when  my  heart,  bright  bin 

Like  them  is  gay  and  glad  ; 
Thou  wilt  pour  for  me  thy  richest  song, 

When  my  lonely  soul  is  sad  : 
Sweet  is  the  thought  to  my  spirit,  when 

The  sky  looks  dark  above, 
That  something  clings  to  me  in  this  wide  world 

With  a  pure,  unselfish  love. 

I  guard  thee,  bird,  with  a  watchful  eye, 

I  deck  thy  cage  with  flowers  ; 
I  sing  and  talk  with  thee.  lest  thou 

Shouldst  know  some  weary  hour  : 
Then  oh  !  be  content,  nor  pine  to  break 

The  fetter  by  which  thou  art  bound  ; 
A  faithful  heart  in  this  cold,  cold  world, 

Is  very  seldom  found. 

I  laugh  at  those  who  sigh  "  Poor  bird," 

When  they  sorrowful  pass  you  by  ; 
True,  thou  art  barred  in  a  narrow  cage, 

Yet  thou  art  more  free  than  I. 
Never,  ah  !  never  must  thou,  sweet  bird, 

Be  led  by  courtly  rule, 
And  practise  the  measured  step  and  word, 

Studied  in  Fashion's  school. 


TO    MY    LITTLE    CANARY    BIRD  55 

Then  pine  not,  bird,  for  the  bright  blue  sky — 

The  arrow  might  find  thy  heart ; 
Who  would  bow  to  thee  there  in  love  ? 

Here  a  monarch  thou  art. 
'Twould  be  a  cruel  kindness,  bird, 

To  open  thy  prison  door, 
And  send  thee  away  to  the  broad  greenwood— 

So  I  close  it  for  ever  more  ! 


IDLE     RHYMES. 

"WHO    WOULD    LITE    WITHOUT    RECIPROCAL    LOVE? 

NONE,  if  we  might  choose  our  fate, 
Would  affection's  tendrils  crush  ; 

None  that  wailing  of  the  heart, 

Craving  always  to  be  loved, 
Would  in  calmness,  coldness  hush, — 
Could  we  meet, 

Be  it  early,  be  it  late, 

Each  its  own  peculiar  mate. 

But  how  oft  in  life's  dark  path 

Lonely  wanderers  we  see, 
Whose  bright  visions  never  may 

Turn  to  blest  reality. 
Though  they  cold  and  quiet  seem, 
Pine  they  still — alas  !  in  vain — 

For  some  joy  that  ne'er  can  be  ; — 

'Outivard  calm, — 
Yet  they  may  not  hope  to  still 
Voiceless  longings  of  the  soul. 

Think  you  'tis  from  choice  we  turn, — 

Some  to  pleasure,  some  to  fame  ? 
Could  the  giddy  jest  and  song, 
Could  the  worship  of  the  throng, — 
Deathless  name, — 

<56) 


IDLE    RHYMES.  57 

Pay  us  for  the  blooms  of  joy 
Lying  dead  within  the  heart  ? 

Longings  vain, 

Hours  of  pain, 
Hopes  that  ne'er  may  shine  again? 

None  would  pass  through  life  alone, 

Cold,  unloving,  and  unloved, 
Could  the  spirit-mate  be  found  ; 
For  the  heart,  a  woodbine  thing, 
Yinelike,  ever  loves  to  cling, 

Bound  on  something  true  and  strong  : 
Failing  there, 

With  a  feeling  of  despair 
Draws  its  tendrils  sadly  back  ; 

As  the  vine, 

Rudely  wrenched  from  its  support, 
Lifeless  trails  upon  the  ground. 

In  this  bitter  world  there  are 

Souls  that,  like  the  fettered  bird, 
Set  apart  from  all  its  kind, 

Ne'er  a  song  of  love  have  heard  ; 
Some  who  le-iru — 

Oh  I  at  what  a  bitter  cost ! — 
That  all  hearts  may  be  their  own 

Save  the  one  they  value  most. 
Some  who  cast  the  gems  of  love 

Like  a  pearl  unheeded  forth, 

Spurned,  despise  !. 
At  the  careless  feet  of  one  who 

Never  understood  its  worth. 


58  IDLE    RHYMES. 

Others — oh  !  God  pity  them ! — 

Find,  alas !  but  all  too  late, 
One  who  might  have  loved  them  well, 
Made  this  life  a  thing  of  joy, 

Had  not  cruel  fate 
Placed  a  deep,  wide  gulf  between, 
That  to  overleap  were  sin. 
Oh  1  'twere  better  far 
To  worship  always  some  ideal  star, 
That  coldly  shines  in  midnight  sleep, 

Than  find  that  dream  reality — 
Than  know  the  heart  thine  own  hadst  sought, 
Which  thou  "  with  sacrifice  hadst  bought," 
Can  never  give 

The  sweet  return, 
For  thee  to  throb, 

For  thee  to  burn, 

But  must  some  other  pathway  bless — 
Then  wake  to  weep  ! 

None,  if  we  might  choose  our  fate, 

Would  the  bitter  lot  select ; 
None  prefer  the  heart  should  lie 

Withering  in  a  slow  neglect. 
Yet  how  gladly  would  we  wait. 

With  this  craving  to  be  loved, 
Could  we  meet, 
Nor  meet  in  vain, 
Be  it  early,  be  it  late, 
Each  its  own  peculiar  mate. 


THE    COQUETTE. 

HER  smiles  are  bright,  and  diamonds  rare 
Flash  in  the  braids  of  her  jetty  hair  ; 
Hearts  bow  under  her  sparkling  glance, 
As  she  gracefully  moves  in  the  giddy  dance  : 

Her  lips  part  often 
In  laugh  and  jest, 

And  jewels  shine 

On  her  arms  and  breast : 
Beauty  and  genius  in  her  have  met, 
And  queen  of  the  throng  is  the  fair  coquette. 

Fame  has  placed  chaplets  upon  her  brow, 
And  lovers  are  sighing  around  her  now  ; 
Some  liken  her  cheek  to  the  rose — and  her  eyes 
To  the  star-gems  that  beam  on  our  midnight  skies : 

She  is  courted  and  worshipped 
At  every  ffete ; 

She  is  sought  by  the  wealthy, 

And  proud,  and  great : 
Yet  she  turns  alike  from  the  young  and  old, 
And  is  "  fair  as  marble,  but  oh !  as  cold." 

Poets  and  orators  bow  at  her  feet, 
Are  victims  alike  of  her  art  and  deceit ; 
Brave  men,  who  never  were  conquered  before — 
Soldiers,  who  smiled  at  the  cannon's  roar — 


60  THE    COQUETTE. 

Bow  in  the  dust 

To  this  victor  fair, 
Lured  by  the  dimples 

Her  soft  cheeks  wear  : 
For  few  may  escape  the  gilded  net 
Wove  by  the  hands  of  the  fair  coquette. 

The  artist  for  her  lays  his  pencil  down, 
And  sinks  'neath  the  weight  of  her  scornful  frown ; 
She  has  robbed  the  bard  of  his  dream  of  fame, 
But  her  syren  song  is  still  the  same  : 

One  and  another 
Before  her  fall  ; 

For  her  smiles  are  given 

To  one  and  all : 

Yet  never  a  word  or  a  sigh  of  regret 
Falls  from  the  lips  of  the  fair  coquette. 

Little  she  cares  for  the  inward  strife, 
The  look  of  despair,  and  the  blighted  life  ; 
No  eloquent  voice,  no  pleading  tone, 
Ever  may  soften  her  heart  of  stone  : 

Her  eyes  are  as  bright, 
And  her  smiles  as  gay, 

Though  wreck  and  ruin 

Lie  on  her  way  : 

Her  highest  delights  are  the  hidden  smart, 
The  look  of  anguish,  the  tortured  heart. 

And  why  ?  for  to  her  of  revenge  they  speak — 
The  ashy  lip,  and  the  paling  cheek  ; 


THE    COQUETTE.  61 

And  she  hath  vowed  that  the  many  should 
Repay  for  her  blighted  womanhood  ; 
Repay  for  her  hours 

Of  sleepless  sorrow  ; 
The  long,  long  night, 

And  the  weary  morrow  : 
For  the  crime  of  one  loved  once — loved  yet — 
Hath  made  her  a  heartless,  vain  coquette. 

He  crossed  her  path  when  her  life  was  young, 
With  burning  eloquence  on  his  tongue  ; 
"  His  voice  was  gentle,  and  never  loud — 
Its  very  softness  awed  the  crowd  ;" 

His  brow  was  beauty's  throne, 
And  his  eyes 

Had  borrowed  their  hue 

From  the  summer  skies. 
Ah  !  never  before  had  such  grace  been  given 
To  mortal,  since  angels  were  lured  from  heaven. 

With  softened  accents  he  sought  her  side, 
His  eyes  spoke  love,  and  her  own  replied  ; 
She  was  guileless  then,  and  her  sudden  start 
Betrayed  the  love  of  her  youthful  heart. 

He  won  her  to  him — 
Like  a  worthless  flower 

He  cast  her  aside  ; 

And  from  that  hour 

Gone,  gone  were  the  dreams  of  her  innocent  youth, 
Her  woman's  trust,  and  her  woman's  truth ! 


62  THE    COQUETTE. 

Not  hers  to  pine  like  a  faded  thing  ; 

She  hid  her  wound  with  a  plumaged  wing  : 

One  day  of  anguish — of  dark  despair, 

As  black  as  the  night  when  no  star  is  there — 

In  silence  she  wept 

O'er  her  bitter  wrong — 

Then  away  once  more 

To  the  festive  throng. 

Oh !  woe  to  the  woman  whose  heart  believed, 
Who  loved  and  trusted — an<l  was  deceived  ! 

Ah !  where  is  the  confidence  now  of  her  youth  ? 
Where  the  artless  eye,  once  the  well  of  truth  ? 
The  one,  with  her  buried  love  lies  dead  ; 
The  other,  deceiving  rays  doth  shed. 

In  vain  fond  lovers 
May  throng  her  way  ; 

If  he  was  false-hearted, 
Then  what  are  they  ? 

With  a  scorn  for  all  in  her  blighted  heart, 
She  smiles  on  the  ruin  her  art  hath  wrought. 

Brightest  and  fairest  where  all  are  fair  ; 
Diamonds  flash  in  her  shining  hair  ; 
Queen  of  beauty  and  queen  of  song  ; 
Worshipped  and  courted  in  every  throng  ; 
Brightly  she  shines 

At  assembly  and  ball  ; 
Bowed  to  by  many, 
Admired  of  all : 


THE    COQUETTE.  63 

Fame  and  devotion  are  hers — and  yet, 
Who  envies  the  lot  of  the  fair  coquette? 

She  will  smile,  she  will  trifle  her  young  life  away, 
She  will  sneer  with  the  heartless — laugh  with  the 

gay  ; 

Singling  victims  in  every  tnrong 
Luring  them  on  with  Circean  song  ; 
And  then  as  a  bride 

At  the  altar  she'll  stand, 
Giving  no  heart 

With  her  jewelled  hand, — 
When  a  golden  fish  is  caught  in  the  net 
Wove  by  the  hands  of  the  fair  coquette ! 


A    DREAM. 

I  DREAMED  that  thou  wert  dying  ;  that  thy  head 
Was  pillowed  gently  on  my  faithful  heart — 
The  heart  that  loved  thee  through  long,  weary  years, — 
When  thou  wert  cold,  and,  wrapped  in  chill  indifference, 
Looked  icily  upon  me, — when  a  face 
Far  lovelier  than  my  own,  a  brow  of  beauty 
Draped  o'er  with  sunny  curls,  first  won  thy  smile — 
Concealed  its  blight,  and,  hiding  from  the  world 
The  wound  which  time  nor  aught  couldst  ever  heal, 
Prayed  only  for  thy  happiness — the  constant  heart 
Which,  turning  coldly  from  the  proffered  love 
Of  others,  beat  for  thee — thee  only. 

Yet  I  dreamed — 

When  fell  disease  had  robbed  thee  of  life's  charm  ; 
Had  stolen  from  thy  cheek  the  rose's  tint, 
And  from  thine  eagle  eye  its  fire  and  warmth  ; 
Had  ta'en  from  thy  pale  lips  the  kiss  of  love, 
And  written  on  thy  brow  the  seal  of  death ; 
When  in  thy  quivering  heart  the  pulse  of  life 
Was  flickering  low  and  still,  and  earth,  with  all 
Its  varied  beauties — its  sweet  singing  birds, 
Its  summer  blossoms,  and  its  rippling  streams. 
Its  sunset  clouds,  its  soft  and  mystic  eves. 
Its  starlit  nights,  and  all  the  loveliness 

(64) 


A    DREAM.  65 

Which  nature  spreads  in  panoramic  view 

To  glad  the  artist  eye  and  poet  soul — 

Was  fading  slowly  from  thy  death-dimmed  gaze, — 

That  thou  didst  come  to  me  like  weary  child, 

And  nestled  fondly  in  my  sheltering  arms, 

Which  clasped  thee  closely  as  the  miser  clasps 

His  box  of  hoarded  treasures.     Thou  didst  lean 

Thine  aching  head  upon  my  faithful  heart, 

And  poured  into  my  sympathizing  ears 

The  history  of  thy  grief — the  bitter  blight 

Which  withered  all  thy  early  buds  of  joy. 

And  I — too  glad  to  have  thee  there — didst  pass  my 

hand 

With  soft,  mesmeric  touch  o'er  thy  pale  brow, 
And  parted  gently  the  thick  clustering  curls 
Which  half  concealed  its  beauty, — printed  many  a  kiss 
Of  passion  and  despair  upon  thy  cheeks, 
Already  whitening  for  an  early  grave. 
And  then  I  prayed,  with  agony  intense, 
That  I — folding  thee  thus  with  many  a  fond  caress — 
Might  die  with  thee — might  share  thy  future  fate. 
And  go  with  thee  adown  the  deep,  cold  stream, 
Whose  widening  waters,  stretching  far  away, 
Thy  feet  already  touched.     I  could  not  bear 
That  thou  shouldst  die,  and  leave  me  here  alone, 
Where  everything  spoke  of  thee — every  book 
Bore  the  faint  impress  of  thy  pencil  touch — 
Each  old  song  was  such  as  thou  liadst  loved, — 
Where  all — aye,  all,  when  thou  wert  gone  from  me. 
Would  bring  thee  back  with  maddening  thought  again. 
Too  dark  the  picture  ! — what  were  life  to  me, 


66  A    DKEAM. 

When  thou,  the  sun  which  made  its  brightness  all, 
Iladst  set  forever ! 

Vain  was  anguished  prayer  : 
Tly  cheek  grew  pale,  while  mine,  alas !  retained 
The  hue  of  life  ;  thy  heart's  pulsations  still 
Fainter  and  fainter  grew,  with  flickering  throb, 
While  mine  beat  strongly  as  before  : — I  could  not  die  ! 
And  then,  with  maddening  plea,  I  prayed  that  thou 
Mightst  live — aye,  live,  although  thy  smiles  would  bless 
Another  heart ;  live,  though  thine  eyes  would  beam 
No  more  for  me — thy  hand  seek  mine  no  more 
With  gentle  pressure.     Vain — yes,  all  in  vain ! 
About  my  neck  I  felt  thine  arms  entwine, 
As  weaker  grew  thy  clasp  ;  more  heavily 
Thy  head  sank  back  upon  its  resting-place  ; 
And  wearily  thy  silken  lashes  drooped 
Above  the  glorious  eyes  now  veiled  in  death — 
Those  soft  blue  eyes,  which  when  they  smiled  on  me 
Caused  my  fond  heart  to  pulsate  with  the  song 
Of  happiness,  and  made  my  life  to  me 
•'  A  thing  of  joy." — They  told  me  thou  wert  dead  !   m 
And  would  have  torn  thee  from  my  warm  embrace  ; 
But  with  a  maniac  clutch  I  grasped  my  prize, 
Which  no  rude  hand  might  touch — mine  only  now — 
And  robed  thee  for  the  tomb.     They  found  me  there, 
Beside  that  table  with  its  sheet  of  white. 
Still  pillowing  thy  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  with  a  placid  smile  singing  to  thee 
As  if  thou  wert  asleep,  and  would  awake 
With  coming  dawn  ;  pressing  thy  cold  stiff  hands  : 


A    DEEAM.  67 

Parting  the  silken  curls  from  thy  fair  brow 
With  gentle  touch, — alas !  no  need  of  that — 
And  murmuring  to  all  who  would  approach, 
"  Be  still— he  sleeps  !" 

I  started  from  my  dream, 

And  slowly  slumbering  consciousness  returned. 
My  slumbers  were  dispelled.     The  morning  sun 
Was  shining  brightly  ;  through  the  casement  came 
The  sweet,  rich  fragrance  of  the  summer  blooms  ; 
And  from  the  neighboring  trees  wild  mocking-birds 
Hummed  each  his  hymn  of  joy.     Sleep  fled  afar  : — 

Thank  God  !  'twas  but  a  dream Ha !  what  is  that  ? 

What  horror  have  you  there  that  thus  you  stand 

With  pitying  eyes,  and  blanching  cheek  and  lips  ? 

Speak  to  me,  friends — delay  is  maddening! 

Why  do  you  whisper  thus  among  yourselves, 

"  Break  the  news  gently  "  ?     I  like  not  mystery 

My  Percy ! — what  of  him  ?     You  breathe  his  name 

With  trembling  accent,  as  we  sometimes  speak 

A  long-forbidden  word — half  timidly, 

As  though  afraid  the  very  air  might  catch 

The  sound.     What  have  you  there  I  may  not  see  ? 

What  means  that  letter  with  its  seal  of  black  ? 

I  see — I  see  it  all ! — some  stranger  tells 

The  news  of  Percy's  death ! — My  Percy  dead ! 

It  seems  but  yesterday  I  saw  him  stand, 

The  idol  of  an  adulating  crowd, 

Swaying  the  multitude  with  that  rich  flow 

Of  earnest  eloquence  by  nature  lavish  given  ; 

That  soft,  persuasive  voice,  low,  like  a  wind-harp, 


68  A    DREAM. 

Sweet  as  the  tinkle  of  a  silver  bell. 

It  may  not — cannot  be !     I  know  he  lives ! 

Tell  me  that  he  yet  loves,  and  wooes  another, — 

I  can  bear  that — but  not  that  he  should  die  ; 

Not  that  the  grave,  the  lonesome  grave  should  win 

Him  to  its  dismal  depths,  its  foul  embrace, 

Its  never-ending  gloom ! 

My  Percy  dead ! 

Oh !  then,  'twas  not  a  dream  ;  or  a  black  dream 
That  day  but  verified  ;  a  horror  sent 
To  warn  me  that  the  earth  had  swallowed  up 
All  that  could  make  life  happiness  to  me ! 
0,  would  that  I  might  die  !     I  do  not  fear 
An  earth-made  bed — it  holds  my  darling  too. 
Oh  !  welcome  chains  !  welcome  the  maniac's  cell ! 
The  ravings  of  insanity  ! — all,  anything, 
But  this  dull  consciousness  of  Percy  dead  ; 
This  lethargy,  which  wraps  me  like  a  shroud  ; 
This  icy  hand,  which  will  not  leave  my  heart — 
Will  n.,  i  be  shaken  off : — I  shall  go  mad  ! 
Welcome  insanity,  and  dungeon  dim  ! 
'Twere  better  than  this  nightmare  of  the  soul  : — 
A  voice  aroused  me  from  my  slumber  wild, — 
I  woke — and  lo  !  this  too  was  but  a  dream  ! 


A    POEM 

IX    MEMORY    OF    THREE    FRIENDS    WHO   BORE    THE    SAME    NAME. 

By  a  hearth  of  dying  embers 

I  am  musing  all  alone  ; 
And  I'm  hearing  in  the  silence 

Many  a  long-forgotten  tone  ; 
Once  again  my  eyes  are  gazing 

On  the  brows  the  grave  has  chilled  ; 
And  I'm  listening  to  the  music 

Of  sweet  voices  death  has  stilled. 

Darkness  resteth  on  the  city, 

And  the  world  is  all  asleep  ; 
But  alas !  I  am  too  wakeful, 

For  I  only  wake  to  weep. 
How  my  memory  is  busy 

With  each  mournful,  bygone  scene  ; 
And  my  lonely  heart  is  resting 

On  the  days  which  once  have  been. 

How  I  love  the  solemn  stillness. 

Which  now  broodeth  over  all ; 
When  the  earth  is  robed  in  darkness 

Black  as  any  funeral  pall ! 
I  can  hear  no  careless  voices 

To  disturb  my  sombre  mood  ; 
And  my  sad  soul  is  communing 

With  the  beautiful — the  good. 


70  A    POEM. 

I  can  see  no  bright  star-watcher 

Gleaming  on  the  brow  of  night ; 
And  no  meteor  is  dancing — 

E'en  the  moon  has  veiled  her  light. 
Oh  !  it  suits  my  gloomy  spirit 

To  look  out  on  such  a  scene  ; — 
Everything  is  dark  around  me, 

Dark  as  my  young  life  hath  been. 

But  I  must  not — dare  not  murmur 

At  the  grief  which  clouds  my  brow, 
For  I  knew  one  blissful  summer, 

Though  'tis  winter  with  me  now. 
Once  my  smile  was  all  the  brightest, 

And  my  voice  sang  out  in  mirth  ; 
Once  my  heart  was  as  the  lightest 

On  this  weary,  sin-cursed  earth. 

Once  kind  friends  were  gathered  round  me, 

Whom  to  know  was  but  to  love  ; 
But  the  fairest  ones  among  them 

Angels  summoned  up  above. 
And  the  ones  I  loved  most  fondly 

Fate  has  parted  from  my  side  ; 
And  my  bark  is  floating  cheerless. 

All  alone  adown  life's  tide. 

But  they  come  in  dreams  to  cheer  me, 
Dreams  the  beautiful  and  bright ; 

And  my  soul  is  in  the  presence 
Of  the  loved  and  lost  to-night. 


A    POEM.  71 

As  the  shell  is  ever  singing 

Of  the  blue — the  boundless  sea  ; 

So  my  heart  the  past  retaineth 
Wheresoe'er  my  home  may  be. 

See  I  now  a  face  whose  beauty 

Charmed  my  spirit  all  too  well  ; 
For  I  loved  it  with  a  passion 

That  no  words  may  ever  tell. 
I  can  see  the  golden  tresses, 

And  the  eyes  of  azure  blue  ; — 
But  alas  !  in  memory  only, 

Death  has  hid  it  from  my  view. 

Said  I  death  ? — ah,  no  !  more  cruel 

Was  the  fate  which  bade  us  part ; 
Better  mourn  o'er  white-robed  corpses, 

Than  a  cold  and  faithless  heart. 
Oh  !  'tis  better  to  be  weeping 

O'er  a  coffin-pillowed  head, 
Than  to  know  thine  idol  living 

While  the  love  for  thee  is  dead. 

Better  see  the  eye  grow  dimmer, 

Than  to  see  it  turned  away — 
Weep  o'er  dust  to  dust  returning, 

Than  in  life  to  find  it  clay. 
Better  far  to  mourn  the  losing 

Of  a  heart  whose  life  is  o'er  ; 
Than  to  weep  in  restless  midnights 

For  a  love  which  comes  no  more. 


72  A    POEM. 

But  I'm  hearing  other  voices 

Bearing  music  in  their  flow  ; 
And  I'm  seeing  other  faces 

Cherished  in  the  long  ago — 
Hands  that  now  are  folded  calmly 

On  some  snowy,  pulseless  breast, 
I  imagine  in  my  dreaming 

In  my  own  are  fondly  pressed. 

Oh  ! — they  come  ! —  they  hover  near  me  ! 

They  the  loved — the  early  dead ! 
Who  for  long  years  have  been  sleeping 

In  some  icy  earth-made  bed. 
One  I  see  with  waving  ringlets, — 

Kyes  that  wear  the  violet's  hue  ; 
Once  my  friend  in  early  girlhood  ; 

One  I  loved  when  life  was  new. 

Ah  !  hers  was  a  brow  of  beauty 

Fair  as  mortals'  e'er  hath  been, 
And  she  walked  the  earth  as  proudly 

As  some  crowned  and  high-born  queen. 
Jewels  flashed  upon  her  bosom. 

Bright  gems  sparkled  in  her  hair  ; 
In  the  grave  that  face  is  resting — 

Ah  !  she  wears  no  jewels  there  ! 

Loveliest  in  the  crowded  ball-room  : 
Queen  of  every  festal  throng  ; 

Gayest  of  the  gay  and  mirthful, 
Child  of  beauty  and  of  song  ! 


A    POEM.  73 

Ne'er  a  thought  of  things  diviner, 

Thought  of  heaven — immortal  birth — 

All  the  goal  that  rose  before  her 
Was  the  praise  and  fame  of  earth. 

On  the  eve  which  should  have  found  her 

In  her  bridal  robes  arrayed, 
She,  the  peerless,  haughty  Annie, 

In  a  lowly  grave  was  laid  : 
Faithful  love  would  fain  have  saved  her, 

But  in  vain — she  drooped  and  died  ; 
In  a  snowy  shroud  we  robed  her, 

When  she  should  have  been  a  bride. 

Far  from  mortal  gaze  we  placed  her, 

By  the  moonlight  pale  and  dim  ; 
Funeral  lights  were  gleaming  round  her, 

And  a  dirge  her  marriage  hymn. 
Still  a  bride  in  festal  garments, 

Death,  the  bridegroom  she  had  wed — 
Aye,  the  nuptial  couch  was  waiting, 

But  the  earth  was  now  her  bed. 

I  again  with  bitter  musing, 

Look  on  memory's  faithful  glass — 
Other  eyes  are  beaming  on  me, 

Other  forms  before  me  pass. 
And  I  single  from  among  them 

A  sweet  face  all  pure  and  fair  ; 
One  who  died  when  summer  blossoms 

Shed  their  fragrance  on  the  air. 

4 


74  A    POKM. 

Lovely  as  the  water-lily 

Ere  a  breath  hath  o'er  it  moved, 
Or  the  early  rose  in  spring-time, 

Was  the  Annie  that  I  loved. 
Like  two  buds  on  one  stem  resting, 

We  in  love  together  grew — 
She  had  shared  my  girlish  pleasures, 

And  my  childish  sorrows,  too. 

How  I  mourned  when  early  sorrow 

Quenched  the  love-light  in  her  eye  ! 
How  I  wept  when  first  they  told  me 

That  my  gentle  one  must  die  ! — 
But  'twas  better  thus  to  perish. 

Earth  her  spirit  sorely  tried  ; — 
Hers  the  common  lot  of  woman, 

For  she  suffered — loved — and  died  ! 

But  the  dearest  of  the  many 

Earth  has  pillowed  on  her  breast, 

Was  the  gentle  little  Annie, 

Loved  the  last — and  loved  the  best  ! 

Time  has  not  subdued  my  sorrow- 
In  my  heart  is  winter-blight ; 

For  the  holy  angels  called  her 
Just  one  year  ago  to-night. 

In  the  gloomy,  sad  October, 

When  the  earth  was  turning  grey. 

When  the  trees  and  flowers  were  1  tearing 
Evidence  of  slow  dectiv  ; 


A   POEM.  75 

We  had  gathered  summer  blossoms 

For  a  brow  all  pale  and  chill  ; 
And  the  last  white  buds  were  strewing 

O'er  a  heart  whose  pulse  was  still. 

I  have  called  three  loved  ones  Annie, 

They,  the  dearest  I  have  known  ; 
Three  white  tombstones  now  are  bearing 

That  same  name,  and  it  my  own  : — 
But  the  visions  fade  before  me, 

One  by  one  the  forms  depart — 
Ashes  on  the  hearth  are  lying, 

Ashes  too  are  in  my  heart ! 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  SONG  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

I  AM  fifty-two  to-day,  sweet  wife, 

I  am  fifty-two  to-day  ; 
The  hair  which  was  raven  some  years  ago, 

Is  rapidly  turning  grey. 
My  eyes  grow  dim,  and  my  step  is  slow, 

Old  Time  has  furrowed  my  brow  ; 
And  the  lover  who  stole  your  heart  away, 

Is  only  an  ':  old  man  "  now. 

Say,  do  you  remember  the  day,  sweet  wife, 

When,  a  bashful  youth  of  nineteen, 
I  whispered  my  love  'neath  the  broad  old  oak, 

Which  towered  so  high  on  the  green  ? 
You  hung  down  your  head  with  a  timid  blush, 

And  your  wealth  of  curly  hair 
Fell  over  your  forehead — I  pushed  it  away, 

And  left  a  sweet  kiss  there. 

And  do  you  remember  the  day,  sweet  wife, 

When  Tom,  with  his  handsome  face, 
His  polished  manners,  his  flattering  tongue, 

And  his  air  of  courtly  grace, 
Came  a-wooing  thee  with  confident  air 

From  his  home  of  wealth  and  pride  ? 
But  your  heart  was  mine  ;  and  with  mortified  look 

He  left,  but  he  carried  no  bride. 

(76) 


THE    OLD    MAN'S    SONG   TO    HIS   WIFE.  77 

A  wreath  of  jessamine,  myrtle,  and  fern, 

I  placed  on  your  sunny  brow  ; 
That  brow  is  faded  and  pale  since  then, 

But  is  beautiful  to  me  now. 
For  your  eyes,  though  they  sparkle  no  more,  sweet  wife ; 

With  the  star-beams  of  youthful  joy  ; 
Wear  still  the  unchangeable  light  of  love, 

That  blessed  my  heart  when  a  boy. 

And  do  you  remember  the  night,  sweet  wife, 

In  the  time  of  the  leafy  June, 
When  we  plighted  our  vows  under  holy  stars, 

And  the  rays  of  the  summer  moon  ? 
When  I  asked  you  to  go  through  life  by  my  side, 

And  with  me  never  to  part  ? 
Your  answer  was  low — but  it  reached  my  ear 

As  I  folded  you  close  to  my  heart. 

We  have  loved  and  suffered  together,  sweet  wife, 

And  we  love  each  other  still  ; 
Three  little  babes  we  have  buried  from  sight, 

In  that  graveyard  under  the  hill. 
But  joy  or  sorrow,  whichever  we  felt, 

Ever  found  us  side  by  side  ; 
And  as  fondly  now  do  I  love  thee,  wife, 

As  I  loved  the  blushing  young  bride. 

On  the  bark  of  an  oak  I  carved  our  names, 

In  that  May-time  long  ago  ; — 
Alas  !  I  have  seen  that  sturdy  tree 

By  the  woodman's  axe  laid  low  : 


78  THE  OLD  MAN'S  SONG  TO  HIS  WIPE. 

So  death  will  cut  us  down,  sweet  wife, 

As  low  as  that  aged  tree  ; 
I  care  not — I'll  welcome  even  the  grave, 

So  they  lay  you  down  by  me. 

I  am  fifty-two  to-day,  sweet  wife, 

My  locks  are  mingled  with  grey  ; 
And  you  and  I  from  this  gladsome  earth, 

Are  rapidly  passing  away  : — 
But  oh  !  if  your  hand  clasp  mine — and  your  ear 

Shall  catch  my  latest  breath, — 
With  your  kiss  on  my  lips  I  will  sink  with  a  smile 

In  the  cold  embrace  of  death. 


TO    YOU. 

I  WOULD  I  were  the  simplest  flower 

That's  loved  by  thee ; 
Daisy,  or  pink,  or  violet, 

I  fain  would  be. 
I  know  'twould  soon  be  cast  aside, 

A  faded  flower  ; 
And  yet  'twere  bliss  to  have  thee  smile 

On  me  one  hour. 

I  would  I  were  some  little  bird 

That's  loved  by  thee  ;" 
I'd  charm  thine  ear  when  thou  wert  sad, 

With  melody  : 
At  evening's  soft  and  quiet  hour 

I'd  fold  my  wing, 
To  hover  round  thy  window,  love, 

And  sweetly  sing. 

I  cannot  be  a  bird  or  flower 

That's  loved  by  thee  ; 
Yet  must  I  fade,  like  passing  dream, 

From  memory  ? 
Oh  !  when  to  thee  the  sweet  birds  sing, 

Or  flowers  are  brought ; 
Remember  her  who  didst  so  crave 

One  gentle  thought. 

(79) 


TO    MY    BROTHER, 

IN    RETURN   FOR   A   BUNCH   OF   EARLY   SPRING    FLOWERS. 

I  THANK  thee,  brother,  for  thy  gift 

Of  rich,  sweet-scented  flowers  ; 
They  came  like  heavenly  visitants 

To  glad  life's  weary  hours  ; 
No  laurel-wreath  the  world  could  give, 

No  chaplet  formed  of  bays, 
Were  half  so  prized — they  made  me  dream 

Of  childhood's  merry  days, 
When  thou  and  I  together  played, 

Two  happy  children  we ; — 
Ah,  Willie,  times  have  changed  since  then, 

But  thou  art  left  to  me. 

Though  humble  was  our  early  home, 

'Twas  goodly  to  the  view  ; 
A  woodbine  clambered  o'er  the  door, 

A  yellow  jasmine  too  ; 
Pinks,  roses,  and  forget-me-nots 

Bloomed  in  profusion  there ; 
And  modest  lilacs  hid  themselves 

;Mid  dahlias  rich  and  rare  ; 
And  there  the  tiny  snow-drop  peeped 

A  inodest,  winning  thing  ; 
And  yellow  jonquils,  which  foretold 

The  quickly  coming  spring. 

180' 


TO    MY    BROTHER.  81 

That  homestead  is  deserted  now ! 

Our  feet  may  press  no  more, 
With  eager,  light,  and  happy  step, 

The  brightly  polished  floor  : 
And  those  familiar  paths  at  eve 

We  ne'er  may  walk  again  ; 
Or  run  as  happy  children  do, 

Adown  the  shaded  lane  : — 
The  smiling  spring  is  there  once  more, 

With  beauty  on  her  brow  ; 
And  birds  are  singing  from  each  limb — 

I  do  not  hear  them  now. 

Yet,  from  my  dusty  city  home, 

Thy  flowers  sent  me  back, 
With  throbbing  heart  and  misty  eyes, 

To  childhood's  faded  track  : 
I  heard  once  more  the  mocking-bird 

Which  woke  me  with  its  song  ; 
And  saw  again  the  wild  wood-flowers, 

Which  bloomed  our  path  along, 
When  we,  upon  our  way  to  school. 

Where  pinks  and  violets  grew, 
Would  loiter  idly  on  the  road, 

As  children  often  do. 

That  early  home  is  dear  to  me ! 

And  near  its  quiet  shade, 
The  children  of  a  sister  loved — 

Two  little  babes — are  laid. 


82  TO    MY    BROTHER. 

We  twined  above  each  early  bed 

Sweet  flowers  of  every  hue ; 
And,  type  of  their  eternal  life, 

The  arbor- vitas  too. 
But  I — I  will  not  sing  of  this, 

It  fills  my  heart  with  pain  ; 
And  I  intended  that  thy  flowers 

Shouldst  wake  a  gladsome  strain. 

I  thank  thee  for  thy  lovely  gift, 

More  precious  far  to  me 
Than  diamonds  from  an  earthly  mine, 

Or  pearls  from  yon  blue  sea. 
Full  many  a  glittering  gem  I  count 

As  keepsakes — but  thy  flowers 
Are  treasured  more,  for  they  recall 

My  childhood's  vanished  hours,  — 
When  life  was  clad  in  rainbow  hues, 

When  I  was  light  and  free, 
And  every  little  simple  thing 

Brought  happiness  to  me. 

Ah !  then  I  laughed,  when  others  said, 

That  grief  to  life  belongs ; 
My  heart  was  like  my  harp,  and  it 

Played  only  pleasant  songs  : 
But  both  have  caught  a  sadder  strain, 

Though  few  have  been  my  years  : 
And  heart  and  lute  alike  have  been 

Baptized  in  bitter  tears  : — 


TO    MY    BROTHER.  83 

Yet  oh !  I  would  not  murmur  now, 

For  God,  a  Father  mild, 
Hath  blessed  me  more  than  I  deserved — 

His  wild,  rebellious  child. 

See !  how  thy  gift  has  led  me  back 

To  childhood's  early  hours  ; 
When  brothers  and  a  sister  loved, 

Strewed  aU  my  path  with  flowers  ; 
When  o'er  our  faults — a  faithful  one  ! — 

A  gentle  mother  wept  ; 
And  weeping,  prayed  for  us,  when  in 

Our  little  beds  we  slept. 
That  circle — it  is  broken  now ! 

A  scattered  band  are  we  : 
Ah,  Willie,  times  have  changed  since  then, 

But  thou  art  left  to  me. 


HUMAN    BEAUTY. 

IT  is  no  sin  to  worship  human  beauty — 

God  gave  us  hearts  the  beautiful  to  love  ; 
We  look  with  joy  on  summer  skies  at  morning, 

And  watch  with  pleas'ure  sunset  clouds  above  : 
Our  souls  are  filled  with  bliss  at  hour  of  evening, 

When  heaven  has  lighted  up  her  train  of  cars  ; 
We  love  to  look  upon  the  moon's  soft  lustre, 

And  gaze  with  rapture  on  the  beaming  stars. 

A  bird  with  plumaged  wing  the  eye  delighteth  ; 

A  tiny  flower  can  bring  us  perfect  bliss, 
When  to  the  sun  it  first  unfolds  its  petals, 

Or  bendeth  low  beneath  the  dew-drop's  kiss. 
An  ocean  shell  doth  bring  us  thoughts  of  gladness, 

Telling  of  trackless  paths  no  foot  hath  trod  ; 
A  murmuring  brook  hath  charms  to  banish  sadness — 

For  all  these  simple  things  are  works  of  God. 

Then  why  not  love  the  human  face  diviner, 

Fashioned  in  beauty,  and  endowed  with  thought  ?- 
We  dwell  with  pleasure  deep  on  some  fine  painting, 

The  skill  of  human-artist's  hand  hath  wrought : 
The  chiselled  features  formed  by  mortal  sculptor, 

With  admiration  strong  and  pure  we  trace  ; 
The  marble  brow  awakens  sweet  emotions — 

Then  why  not  love  a  lovely  human  face  ? 


HUMAN    BEAUTY.  85 

I  love  to  see  soft,  waving  ringlets,  shading 

A  brow  where  beauty  sits  enthroned  a  queen  ; 
To  gaze  on  rose-bud  mouth,  and  faultless  dimple  ; 

And  eyes  which  half  reveal  the  heart  unseen  ; 
A  cheek  which  from  the  ocean  shell  hath  borrowed 

That  soft  pink  tint  with  which  no  rose  can  vie  ; 
And  tresses  which  seem  wove  of  golden  moonbeams 

Just  as  they  sparkled  on  the  summer  sky. 


Yet  what  is  numan  beauty  ?    Faultless  features 

Form  not  the  quiet  loveliness  I  prize  ; 
Not  golden  locks,  nor  cheeks  of  alabaster — 

The  soul  of  beauty  slumbers  in  the  eyes  : 
We  trace  in  their  all-varying  expression 

The  soul's  deep  thoughts  as  written  on  a  chart, 
And  through  those  open  windows  of  the  spirit, 

We  look  upon  the  beating,  hidden  heart. 

So,  'tis  the  heart  that  gives  the  face  its  beauty, 

If  that  be  pure,  the  face  is  lovely  too  ; 
I  care  not  howsoever  plain  the  features, 

If  I  discern  a  spirit  fond  and  true. 
I  own  that  every  simple  thing  I  cherish, 

In  which  a  line  of  beauty  I  can  trace, 
From  sunset  sky,  to  modest,  blooming  daisy, — 

But  worship  most  a  lovely  human  face. 

A  face  where  brilliant  intellect  is  breathing, 
A  brow  where  genius  finds  a  fitting  throne  ; 


86  HUMAN    BEAUTY. 

An  eye  of  gentleness,  which  fondly  mirrors 
A  heart  that  no  impurity  hath  known. 

/  love  the  beautiful — my  soul  rejoices 

In  everything  that  moves  with  quiet  grace  ; 

But  most  I  love  the  beauty  of  the  spirit — 
That  beauty  sparkling  in  a  human  face  ! 


THE    ONE    I    PRIZE. 

GIVE  me  the  eye,  whate'er  its  hue, 

That  has  a  kindly  beam  for  all, 
That  ne'er  on  lowly  human  form 

Doth  let  a  cold  expression  fall  : 
An  eye  which  weeps  when  others  weep, 

When  others  smile  is  smiling  too  ; 
And  so  it  has  a  gentle  glance, 

I  care  not  what  may  be  its  hue. 

Give  me  the  lips  that  never  part 

But  'tis  to  frame  some  gentle  word  ; 
The  lips  from  which  earth's  humblest  01  e 

No  harsh  expression  e'er  hath  heard  : — 
I  care  not  for  the  rose-bud  tint, 

Nor  if  the  mouth  be  large  or  small, 
So  that  it  has  in  every  case 

A  friendly,  cheering  word  for  all. 

Give  me  the  hand  that  never  moves 

But  to  dispense  some  blessing  there  ; 
That's  e'er  engaged  in  works  of  love — 

I  care  not  if  'tis  brown,  or  fair  : — 
The  hand  that  soothes  the  aching  brow, — 

The  hand  that  e'er  to  kindness  leans, 
And  whatsoe'er  its  shape  or  shade, 

I'd  rather  clasp  it  than  a  queen's. 
(87. 


THE    ONK    I    PRIZE. 

Give  me  the  foot  that  does  not  scorn 

To  tread  the  humblest  cottage  floor  ; 
That  moves  with  gentle,  noiseless  step 

About  the  hovels  of  the  poor  : — 
The  foot  that  would  not  crush  a  worm — 

I  care  not  what  may  be  its  size, 
That's  e'er  on  deeds  of  mercy  bent, 

Oh  !  such  the  foot  I  fondly  prize. 

Give  me  the  heart  that  ever  throbs 

In  pity  for  earth's  erring  child, 
That  loves  God's  creatures  every  one — 

A  heart  no  sin  hath  e'er  denied  : 
Give  me  the  eye  that  smiles  on  all, 

The  lip  that  joy  doth  e'er  impart, — 
The  hand  that  soothes  the  couch  of  pain- 

The  willing  foot — the  cheerful  heart. 


HYMN    TO    OLD    AGE. 

WEEP  not,  my  friend,  if  age  has  cast 

Its  shadow  on  thy  brow  ; 
Weep  not,  if  every  bud  of  joy 

Has  left  thy  pathway  now. 
Weep  not,  although  thy  heart  has  proved 

How  false  is  human  love  ; 
If  thou  hast  watched  each  star  of  hope 

Fade  from  thy  sky  above, — 
Weep  not ! — for  'tis  the  common  lot, 
To  suffer — love— and  be  forgot ! 

Weep  not !  although  each  day  thy  step 

Grows  feebler  far,  and  weak  ; 
And  if  the  rosy  hue  of  health 

Hath  faded  from  thy  cheek  : 
If  day  by  day  thine  eye  grows  dim, 

Once  earnest,  clear,  and  bright  ; 
If  thou  hast  watched  life's  opening  morn 

Merge  into  gloomy  night, — 
Weep  not ! — but  trials  meekly  bear, 
And  fold  thy  hands  in  humble  prayer. 

Why  should  we  sigh  for  youth's  delights, 

So  f  i!r,  but  oh  !  so  vain  ? 
Even  love,  which  seems  at  first  so  sweet, 

Brings  less  of  joy  than  pain. 
(89) 


i)()  HYMN    TO    OLD    AGE. 

Hast  thou  not  found  that  Falsehood  wears 

The  mask  of  honest  Truth  ? 
That  Friendship  is  a  dream  ?     Then  oh  ! 

Why  mourn  thy  faded  youth  : — 
Who  that  hath  felt  life's  bitter  pain, 
Would  tread  its  weary  paths  again  ? 

Youth  is  so  full  of  idle  dreams. 

Which  haunt  the  busy  brain  ; 
It  findeth  even  in  little  things 

So  much  to  give  it  pain  : 
Its  heart,  so  fine  and  sensitive, 

By  trivial  griefs  is  tried  ; 
So  filled  with  pinings  sad  and  vain, 

Longings  unsatisfied, — 
'Tis  restless  in  its  very  bliss, 
And  sighs  for  future  happiness. 

Not  much  of  grief  and  care,  I  own, 

My  short  young  life  hath  seen  ; 
And  yet,  I'd  rather  far  to-night 

Be  ninety  than  nineteen. 
This  restless,  vague  inquietude 

Would  then  forsake  my  breast  ; 
The  haunting  dreams  which  wound  me  now, 

Would  then  be  lulled  to  rest : — 
Oh  !  quickly  would  I  leave  youth's  page, 
And  turn  to  quiet,  calm  old  age. 

Not  then,  as  now,  my  heart  would  ache 
With  sudden  start  and  thrill  : 


HYMN   TO   OLD   AGE.  91 

The  pulse  which  throbs  so  wildly  now, 

Would  then  be  cool  and  still : 
With  Marah's  waters,  fate  unkind 

Didst  fill  for  me  life's  cup  ; 
Would  at  a  sudden,  eager  draught 

That  I  could  drink  it  up — 
And  die  ? — oh  !  no — but  would  to-night, 
My  youth — its  dreams — would  leave  me  quite  ! 

I  never  see  a  silvered  head, 

A  furrowed  brow,  a  faded  cheek, 
A  sunken  eye  grown  dim  with  tears, 

But  something  in  my  heart  doth  speak, — 
/  envy  thee — for  soon  the  grave 

Will  win  thee  to  its  quiet  rest ; 
Relieve  thy  soul  of  all  its  weight, 

And  lay  the  phantoms  of  thy  breast  : — 
Thy  journey  nears  its  setting  sun, 
While  mine,  alas  !  is  just  begun. 

And  I  must  see,  as  thou  hast  seen, 

The  heart  grow  cold  I  fancied  true  ; 
And  know  that  life  ere  it  departs, 

Must  lose  its  every  rainbow  hue  ; 
Must  learn  that  serpents  lie  concealed 

Beneath  each  flower  that  fairest  glows  ; 
That  piercing  thorns  which  rudely  wound, 

Hide  underneath  the  loveliest  rose  ; 
That  praise  is  scorn — and  empty,  fame — 
Love  a  deceit — friendship  a  name  ! 


92  HYMN   TO    OLD    AGE. 

Oh,  weep  not  for  thy  faded  youth  ! 

Rejoice  that  it  is  perished — dead  ; 
Nor  sigh  because  old  Time  has  lain 

His  wreath  of  snow  upon  thy  head. 
Wouldst  thou  recall  its  hollow  mirth, 

Its  fantasies  all  false  and  vain  ; 
Its  restlessness — its  longings  vague — 

Say,  wouldst  thou  live  thy  life  again  ? 
Oh,  say  not  so  !  — a  sweeter  bliss 

Than  ever  yet  thy  spirit  knew, 
Awaits  thee — and  a  fairer  isle 

Is  springing  up  before  thy  view  ; — 
And  every  morn  that  glides  to  even, 
But  toings  thee  nearer  up  to  heaven  ! 


CASTLES  BUILT  IN  THE  COALS. 

DREAMING  over  the  coals  of  fire  ! 

Dreaming  dreams  of  the  olden  time  ; 
Idle  hands — and  a  busy  heart 

Tuning  its  chords  to  a  plaintive  chime. 
Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming  ever, 
What  from  my  soul  these  dreams  shall  sever  ? 
What  do  J  see  in  the  coals,  my  love  ? 

What  do  I  see  in  the  coals  to-night  ? 
Visions  that  haunted  me  long  ago, 

Visions  that  made  my  childhood  bright. 
Castles  in  Spain  I  build  anew, — 

See  what  a  fabric  this  brain  hath  wrought ! 
Fair  in  proportions  to  please  the  eye — 

But  its  timbers  were  never  by  silver  bought. 
How  proud  !  how  grand  1 — 
No  lord  of  the  land 
Ever  dwelt  in  a  castle  so  fair  to  view, 
With  carpets  so  gorgeous,  and  rare  in  hue. 
'Twas  built  in  a  moment — like  love  it  grew 
To  perfection  at  once — nor  toil,  nor  care 
Was  needed  to  build  me  that  castle  fair. 
My  earnest  eyes  wear  a  wistful  glance, 
As  I  yield  my  soul  to  this  dreamy  trance  ; 
As  I  gaze  on  the  work  of  my  active  brain, 
And  my  heart  forgets  its  long-fixed  pain, 
As  wisdom  sprung  from  the  head  of  Jove, 
As  the  heart  gives  birth  to  a  full-grown  love  ; 

(93) 


94  CASTLES    BUILT   IN   THE    COALS. 

I  have  seen  my  castle  to  beauty  spring, 

Its  base,  my  fancy's  folded  wing. — 
But,  lo  ! — some  careless  voice  has  spoken 
One  little  word — and  the  spell  is  broken  ! — 
A  crash  ! — a  fall ! — 'oh  !  fabric  fair, 
Thou  hast  left  but  smouldering  ashes  there  ! 

Dreaming  over  the  coals  of  fire  ! — 

Dreaming  dreams  of  the  long  ago  ; 
Like  hurrying  troops  o'er  a  battle-plain, 
The  swift-footed  figures  come  and  go. 
Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming  ever, 
Dreams  that  shall  haunt  my  soul  forever. 
What  do  I  see  in  the  coals,  my  love  ? 
What  do  I  see  in  the  coals,  to-night  ? 
A  monastery  grim  and  old, 
On  an  ancient  hill  that  is  bleak  and  cold  ; 
A  cowled  monk  of  mournful  air, 
The  only  living  thing  that's  there. 
Does  he  sigh  for  vows  that  were  rashly  spoken  ? 
Does  he  weep  over  vows  his  sin  has  broken  ? 
'Tis  a  quiet  eve — and  the  slanting  rays 
Of  the  setting  sun,  so  faint  and  pale, 
Fall  over  those  bleak,  decaying  walls, 

And  hide  their  flaws  like  a  silver  veil  : 
They  glide  o'er  that  stately  figure  there, 
That  living  statue  of  dull  despair — 
But  twilight  comes  with  its  shadows  grey, — 
And  the  monk,  with  the  grim  old  monastery, 
Its  bleak,  bare  walls — its  looks  so  dreary, 
Have  faded  like  the  light  away. 


CASTLES   BUILT    IN    THE    COALS.  95 

They  go,  as  they  came,  through  my  dreamy  mind, 
They  go,  like  the  swift-winged,  restless  wind, 
Away  ! — and  leave  no  trace  behind. 

Dreaming  over  the  coals  of  fire  ! 

Dreaming  as  idle  dreamers  do  ; 
Throwing  fancy's  gossamer  scarf 

Over  the  features  of  the  true. 

Dreaming  dreams  that  leave  me  never, 
Dreaming  dreams  that  haunt  me  ever. 
What  do  I  see  in  the  coals,  my  love  ? 

What  do  I  see  in  the  coals,  to-night  ? 
A  still-faced,  classic-featured  nun, 

With  cheeks  like  her  snowy  garments  white  : 
The  eye  has  lost  its  sternness  now. 
Those  rigid  lines  have  left  the  brow  ; 
The  pale  lips  part  in  a  placid  smile — 
Does  a  dream  of  her  youth  her  heart  beguile  ? 
Those  stiffened  limbs  are  smoothed  to  rest, 
The  thin  hands  lie  on  the  quiet  breast. 

Does  she  sigh  for  the  world  she  early  left, 
For  human  love  that  may  ne'er  be  hers  ? 

Nay,  nay  ! — too  calm  is  her  icy  cheek, 

No  wild  regret  through  that  bosom  stirs. 
Whatever  her  hopes,  they  are  buried  now, 
Their  graves  may  be  seen  on  her  furrowed  brow  ; 
Whatever  her  joys,  they  are  perished — dead — 
Their  corpses  lie  on  her  silvered  head ! 
Who  may  tell  of  the  weary  march, 

The  thorny  path  those  feet  have  trod  ? 
One  alone  hath  her  sorrow  known. 

Only  one — and  that  one — her  God ! 


96  CASTLES   BUILT    IN    THE    COALS. 

She  hath  passed  away  with  her  still  white  face, 

She  hath  passed  away  with  her  voiceless  woes  ; 
Her  heart  hath  its  wild,  deep  music  hushed, 

Her  limbs  are  folded  to  calm  repose. 
White-robed  figures  are  kneeling  there, 
A  dirge  moans  forth  on  the  autumn  air  ; 
Those  upturned  features  heed  it  not — 
She  hath  passed  away  to  the  land  of  rest, 
Her  early  life — its  griefs — unguessed  ! — 
The  moon  looks  down  with  her  misty  beam, 
On  the  things  that  be,  and  the  things  that  seem* 
And  the  nun — and  her  death — is  but  a  dream. 

Dreaming  over  the  coals  of  fire ! 

Thousands  of  maidens  have  dreamed  the  same  ; 

Dreamed  not  of  fortune,  pleasure,  fame, 
But  wrought  bright  visions,  which  vine-like  clung 

Around  some  dear,  familiar  name. 
Dreaming  ever  of  absent  lover. 
Dreaming  the  same  dream  over  and  over, 
Picturing  there  the  meetings  fond, 
Picturing  too  the  bright  beyond  ! 

What  do  I  see  in  the  coals;  my  love  ? 

What  do  I  see  in  the  coals,  to-night  ? 
Many  a  swiftly  shifting  scene — 
A  lordly  castle — and  I  its  queen  ; — 
The  idol  now  of  an  idle  crowd, 
Sought  by  the  wealthy,  the  gay,  the  proud. 

Coldly  my  dark  eyes  gleam  to-night 

On  that  lover  who  wooes  on  bended  knee  ; 

And  I  steal  apart  from  the  festive  throng. 
To  roam  o'er  the  hill-tops,  love,  with  thee. 


CASTLES    BUILT   IN   THE    COALS.  97 

I  cast  off  the  fetters  which  galling  bind, 

The  marble  palace  is  left  behind  : — 

We  seek  again  the  fairy  dell, 

That  trysting  spot  that  we  love  so  well  : — 

Thy  warm  breath  mingles  with  mine,  and  I 

Have  read  my  fate  in  thy  love-lit  eye. 

Close — close — till  it  seems  of  thine  a  part, 

My  heart  is  pressed  to  thy  throbbing  heart ; 

Our  lips  have  met.  in  a  long,  long  kiss, 

And  our  souls  in  a  dream  of  rapturous  bliss. 
Oh  !  transient  gleam  of  an  Eden  lost ! 

Oh  !  moment  brief  of  happiness  fraught ! 
Our  hearts — our  loving  hearts  in  thee 
An  age  of  wondrous  joy  hath  caught ! 

Thou  hast  forgotten,  and  I  forgot 

Days  which  we  wish  to  remember  not ; 

Days  when  the  world  was  dark  and  drear, 

Days  on  which  thou  ivert  not  here  : 
Weary  years  when  mountains  high 

Threw  their  strong  dividing  line  ; 
Years  when  rivers  broad  and  deep 

Rolled  between  thy  heart  and  mine. 
But — woe  !  for  my  castle — my  castle  fair  1 

It  fades  ! — it  falls  like  all  the  rest ! 

This  castle,  the  one  my  soul  loved  best — 
A  heap  of  ashes  ! — a  ruined  mass  ! 

And  the  wreck — ah !  the  wreck  is  in  my  breast ! 

Dreaming  over  the  coals  of  fire  ! 
Coals  that  have  burned  to  ashes  now  ! 
What  have  I  seen  in  the  glowing  heap  ? 
5 


98  CASTLES    [H'lLT    IX    THK    COALS. 

What  have  I  read  in  the  misty  light  ? 

What  in  the  shadows  that  stealthily  creep, 
Shutting  out  what  was  once  so  bright  ? 

When  the  blue  smoke  lazily  curled 

Upward,  what  visions  were  there  unfurled  ? 
I  have  read  my  youth  in  those  coals  of  iire, 

I  read  its  end  in  their  ashes  now— 
And  the  prophecy,  scanned  with  a  wistful  glance. 

Hath  left  its  shade  on  my  thoughtful  brow. 
I  have  opened  the  book  of  the  past  to-night, 

Sweet  love,  and  I  saw  our  parting  there  ; 
I  touched  the  pages  our  future  holds, 

But  the  leaves  were  sealed,  and  I  did  not  dare 
To  break  the  clasp,  lest  my  heart  should  read 

What  it  dreads  to  know — our  love's  despair  ! 
I  dreamed  of  the  years  that  have  swiftly  fled  ; 
I  dreamed  of  the  cold — the  changed — the  dead, — 
And  my  soul  grew  heavy  with  untold  fears, 
And  my  eyes  bowed  down  under  unshed  tears. 
But  I  chased  the  gloom,  and  my  heart  grew  light, 
As  I  dreamed  o'er  the  coals  of  fire  to-night ; 
For  my  brain  was  weaving  a  pleasant  tale, 
And  I  threw  o'er  the  real  a  mystic  veil. 
My  busy  fancy — a  very  child, 

Played  idly  among  the  trees  and  flowers  ; 
Roved  through  many  a  forest  wild, 

Paused  at  will  under  leafy  bowers. 
Sported  from  mournful  scene  to  gay, 

Roamed  alternate  from  laugh  to  tear  ; 
And  I,  the  victim  of  varying  mood, 

Smiled  at  the  bridal — wept  o'er  the  bier  ! 


CASTLES    BUILT    IN   THE    COALS.  99 

Where  have  vanished  the  coals,  my  love, 

The  coals  where  my  castles  I  late  beheld  ? 
They  lie  in  ruins — my  castles  bright 
Are  in  ruins  too — and  its  creatures  of  light, 
Unwept,  unshrouded,  uncoffined,  unknelled, 
Lie  under  the  wreck — and  my  heart  to-night 
Is  weeping  because  of  that  early  blight ! 

They  are  gone  ! 
The  coals,  and  the  wild,  mad  dreams  they  brought. 

All  gone ! 
The  sad  and  the  bright,  the  dark  and  the  light ! 

Gone  where  ? 

With  the  smoke  that  has  vanished  o'erhead, 
With  the  ashes  that  lie  on  the  hearthstone  dead. 
The  coals  are  Youth  ! 
The  smoke,  its  dreams  ! 
The  cold,  cold  ashes — 
Truth ! 


THE    DESERTED    WIFE. 

AH  !  tell  me  why  so  cold,  and  so  estranged  ? 

Why  in  thy  heart  each  fond  remembrance  smother  ? 
There  loas  a  time — 0  God  !  how  life  has  changed — 

When  we  were  all  the  world  to  one  another  ! 
A  time  when  from  thy  smile  my  spirit  caught 

Such  gleams  of  bliss,  such  sweet,  delirious  madness, 
Each  hour  to  me  with  happiness  was  fraught, 

And  danced  with  feathery  feet  down  paths  of  gladness. 

How  changed,  how  bleak,  how  desolate  this  world  ! 

The  star-beams  fall  with  mocking  lustre  o'er  me  ; 
It  seems  to  me  their  rays  in  scorn  are  hurled  ; 

And,  like  a  dreary  desert  stretched  before  me, 
Whose  arid  sands  my  aching  feet  must  tread, 

Knowing  no  more  a  calm  and  sweet  reposing, 
My  future  lies  ;  no  light  upon  it  shed 

To  glad  my  weary  march,  or  cheer  its  closing. 

The  demon  of  unrest  has  napped  its  wings 

Above  the  heart  that  quiet  now  is  spurning  ; 
Upon  life's  cheerless  waste  no  fountain  springs 

To  cool  my  fevered  lips,  so  parched  and  burning. 
A  lonely  traveller,  I  am  borne  along 

The  world,  to  me  a  bare  and  blank  Sahara ; 
No  bird  of  hope  to  sing  its  trusting  song, 

No  waters  for  my  lips  but  those  of  Marah. 
(100) 


THE    DESERTED    WIFE.  101 

You  stole  from  me  the  sunlight  of  my  youth, 

And  yet  not  once  by  word  or  look  I  chided  ; 
You  robbed  me  of  my  confidence  and  truth — 

The  wheels  went  o'er  my  heart,  and  it  divided  ! 
One  cry  of  silent  torture — hidden  pain — 

0  God  !  how  sharp,  how  keen  its  sudden  breaking ! 
Now  in  my  breast  a  mangled  thing  'tis  lain, 

From  which  no  balm  may  e'er  remove  the  aching. 

Ships  have  gone  down  at  sea  when  not  a  speck 

Upon  the  sky  was  seen,  and  so  unfearing 
Met  blindly  Fate  ; — this  single  human  wreck, 

A  woman's  heart  upon  life's  waters  steering, 
Came  just  as  suddenly  ;  no  startling  shriek 

Fell  from  those  lips,  so  icy  and  so  ashen  ; 
Yet  who  could  look  upon  that  blanching  cheek, 

Nor  feel  a  tender  throb  of  soft  compassion  ? 

Gone  in  an  hour  !  all  gone ! — her  hope,  her  trust ! 

She  crushed  the  scorpion  tight,  nor  word  was  spoken 
To  tell  her  torture  :  he,  her  idol,  dust ; 

And  she,  a  warrior-bird  whose  wings  were  broken ! 
I  know  not  what  then  passed  ; — in  calm  despair, 

A  bitter,  mocking  smile  her  pale  lips  wreathing, 
They  found  her  all  alone  in  darkness  there, 

A  still,  white  corpse — but  cursed  with  thought  and 
breathing. 

My  life !  my  life !  and  why  do  I  to-night 

Unseal  its  crisped  and  blotted  leaves  again  ? 


102  THE    DESERTED    WIPE. 

And  dwell  on  what  I  sneer  at, — early  blight, 
And  hopeless  love  ?     Oh !  why  unlink  the  chain 

That  clasped  its  leaves  ?  why  roll  away  the  stone 
That  lies  before  that  sepulchre,  my  heart, 

To  see  the  mocking  dust  of  what  is  gone, 
And  make  those  ashes  into  being  start  ? 

I  weep  in  yonder  city  of  the  dead 

O'er  one  who'd  check  such  tears  with  gentle  chiding  ; 
Then  creep  back  homeward  with  a  weary  tread, 

To  weep  above  the  grave  my  heart  is  hiding. 
And  yet,  so  little  pride  remaineth  now, 

So  heavy  is  this  weight  of  silent  pain, 
I  feel  that  I  could  bare  my  burning  brow, 

And  tell  the  world  that  I  had  loved  in  vain. 

Not  that  I  think  the  outside  world  would  care 

If  every  tear  that  wet  my  face  should  blister  ; 
If  every  hard-wrung  drop  that  trembles  there 

Should — like  the  maid  who  dreamed  a  fiend  had 

kissed  her, 
And  left  with  every  kiss  a  burning  coal — 

Leave  on  my  wan  and  wasted  cheek  a  scar  : 
No,  no  ;  the  world  as  smoothly  on  would  roll 

As  rolls  in  yonder  sphere  the  unpitying  star. 

A  wife — and  yet  no  wife ! — mocked  by  a  tie 

Which  binds  me  still,  though  all  his  vows  are  broken  ; 

In  vain  my  soul  in  bitterness  may  cry, 

No  still  small  voice  gives  to  my  heart  the  token 


THE    DESERTED    WIFE.  103 

That  God  has  heard,  and  will  avenge  my  wrong  ; 

Has  heard  the  piteous  wail  of  one  forsaken — 
Mocked  still  by  recollection's  mournful  song  ; — 

Oh !  why  was  memory  left  when  love  was  taken  ? 

Oil !  where  art  thou,  thou  wronger  of  my  youth  ? 

0  cold  blue  eyes  !  on  whom  art  thou  now  gleaming  ? 
Art  poisoning  to-night  some  woman's  truth, 

Thou  like  a  very  angel  in  thy  seeming  ? 
Say,  does  some  other  fond,  confiding  heart 

Throb  under  the  same  fatal  spell  enchanted  ? 
Does  not  my  pictured  form  to  being  start  ? 

Oh !  art  thou  not  by  icy  spectre  haunted  ? 

Oh !  can  thy  heart  the  past  and  me  forget, 

When  other  hand  than  mine  thine  own  is  pressing, 
When  other  lips  than  mine  thine  own  have  met, 

When  one  loved  dearer  yields  to  thy  caressing  ? 
Do  not  my  eyes  with  calm,  reproachful  glance, 

The  flame  within  thy  faithless  bosom  smother, 
When  thou  art  yielding  to  the  dreamy  trance, 

When  thou  art  murmuring  love-vows  to  another  ? 

Nay,  nay ! — vain  hope ! — deserted  and  forgot ! 

Even  this  faint  solace  thou  my  soul  dost  rob  ; 
And  I  must  learn  to  bear — 'tis  woman's  lot — 

My  fate  with  gasping  groan  and  stifled  sob. 
How  wildly  moan  the  winter  winds  to-night ! 

With  quivering  fear  how  nervously  I  start ! 
Upon  the  earth  and  sky.  oh !  what  a  blight! 

But  there 's  a  deeper  blight  ivithin  my  heart ! 


104  THE    DESERTED    WIFE. 

Moan,  winter  winds  !  shriek  through  the  leafless  pines ! 

Wail  like  the  weary,  haunted  thing  thou  art ! 
Go,  tear  with  desolating  hand  the  vines  ! 

Go,  rend  the  heavy  oaken  boughs  apart ! 
"  Whudder  away,  thou  bitter,  biting  blast !" 

As  though  with  demons  thou  a  war  wert  waging  ! 
Shriek,  rave,  and  scream !  and  wreck  and  ruin  cast ! 

"  The  tempest  in  my  soul  mocks  thy  weak  raging  !  " 


MY     MOTHER. 

"  Oh  1  spare  her.  Heaven  1 

Thy  shining  courts  are  trod 
By  angels  who  resembled  her 

Ere  they  were  called  to  God. 
Their  myriads  darken  land  and  sea, 
But  earth  has  only  one  for  me." 

I  MARK  thy  fair  cheek,  day  by  day, 

Grow  paler  in  its  hue  ; 
Thine  eye,  they  say,  is  growing  dim — 

Alas !  I  mark  that  too  : 
Thy  step  has  lost  its  lightness  now, 
And  silvery  locks  twine  o'er  thy  brow. 

Thy  feeble  voice,  so  low  and  sweet, 

Falls  sadly  on  my  ear  ; 
And  oft  the  smile  which  wreathes  my  lips 

But  hides  the  unshed  tear  : 
My  soul  is  filled  with  care  and  gloom, 
To  see  thee  faltering  towards  the  tomb. 

My  mother  dear !  with  reverence  deep 
Oh  !  let  me  breathe  thy  name, — 

Sweeter  that  simple  word  to  me, 
Than  richest  meed  of  fame  ; 

For  angels  taught  my  lips  to  say 

That  hallowed  name  they  breathe  to-day. 
5*  (105) 


106  MY    MOTHER. 

Not  many  years  my  life  lias  known, 
But  grief  the  dark,  the  drear, 

Has  been  the  only  heritage 
Bequeathed  to  me  while  here  : 

But  one  for  me  didst  ever  pray, 

And  taught  my  feet  "  the  narrow  way." 

0  mother  !  mother  !  can  it  be 
That  thou  and  I  must  part  ? 

1  cannot  bear  to  give  thee  up — 
I  feel  'twould  break  my  heart : 

Deny  me  every  earthly  bliss, 

But,  Father,  spare,  oh  !  spare  me  this  ! 

I  hear  Death's  watch-dog  ceaselessly 

Bay  in  thy  aching  breast, 
And  know  it  would  be  well  for  thee 

To  lay  thee  down  and  rest, 
And  wake  in  heaven,  pure,  undefiled, — 
But  who  would  cheer  thine  orphan  child  ? 

I  feel — I  know  the  hour  must  come, 
When  thou  must  say  good-bye 

To  all  the  scenes  thou  lovest  well, — 
Beneath  the  sod  to  lie  ; 

And  in  my  grief  I  breathe  the  prayer 

That  I  may  lay  beside  thee  there ! 

For,  mother,  thou'rt  my  oil  on  earth, 
And  oh  !  when  thou  art  gone, 

Thy  youngest  child — thy  helpless  one — 
Must  tread  life's  paths  alone  : 


MY   MOTHER.        _  107 

And  there'll  be  none  to  cheer  my  heart, 
Or  bid  its  wintry  gloom  depart. 

Whose  hand  would  press  my  fevered  palm  ? 

Whose  heart  beat  but  for  me  ? 
A  voice  within  me  whispers,  "  None  ;" 

For  I  have  none  but  thee  : 
I  feel  if  thou  wert  called  above, 
I  could  not  live  without  thy  love. 

Though  dark  my  fate  to  some  may  seem, 

'Twas  not  all  dark  to  me, 
For  ever  in  life's  wintry  storm 

I  still  could  turn  to  thee  : 
And  when  in  trouble's  hour  I  came, 
Thy  dear  lips  found  no  word  of  blame. 

How  often  in  the  starless  night 

I  knelt  me  at  thy  knee, 
And  heard  the  gently-whispered  words 

You  breathed  in  prayer  for  me : — 
Oh  !  what  beneath  thos'e  realms  above 
Is  holier  than  a  mother's  love  ? 

One  eye,  in  me  could  see  no  fault, 

Howe'er  I  might  have  erred  ; 
And  by  one  faithful  ear,  my  praise 

With  joy  was  ever  heard  : 
One  heart  doth  ever  beat  with  mine, — 
My  angel-moth  or,  it  is  thine  ! 


108  MY    MOTHER. 

The  fate  which  hath  denied  me  much, 

Gave  me  a  mother's  love  ; 
I  feel  it  was  the  richest  gift 

Sent  from  yon  heaven  above  : 
And  oh !  if  e'er  I  gave  thee  care, 
Forgive  it  for  the  love  I  bear ! 

Then,  angels,  do  not  call  her  yet 

To  ope  the  pearly  gate, 
And  leave  me  orphaned  in  my  youth, — 

Too  bitter  were  the  fate ! 
Or  if  her  doom  be  fixed,  I  pray 
I  ne'er  may  live  to  see  that  day. 

My  mother's  love  is  all  I  have. — 

Oh  !  do  not  us  divide  ! 
But  let  me,  when  she  sleeps  in  death, 

Sleep  peaceful  at  her  side  : 
For  I  can  never  find  another 
Who'll  love  me  like  my  sainted  mother  ! 

Then  spare  her,  kind  and  pitying  Heaven  ! 

"  Thy  shining  courts  are  trod 
By  angels  who  resembled  her 

Ere  they  were  called  to  God. 
Their  myriads  darken  land  and  sea, 
But  earth  has  only  one  for  me  !  " 


LOVE'S  LAST  REQUEST. 

NESTLE  closely  to  me,  sister, 

Put  the  curtains  gently  by  ; — 
Ope  the  window-shutters  softly, 

That  I  may  before  I  die 
Look  once  more  upon  the  star-gems, 

With  their  faint  and  misty  light ; 
Watch  again  the  moon  in  beauty 

Shining  on  the  brow  of  night. 

Put  your  arms  around  me  fondly 

While  I  ope  the  shutters  wide  ; 
Watch  those  fleecy  clouds,  dear  sister ,- 

See  how  gracefully  they  glide 
Onward,  onward,  ever  onward, 

Always  gliding,  never  still — 
Now  o'er  ivy-matted  tower, 

Now  o'er  some  old  ruined  mill. 

Dost  thou  ask  if  I  remember 

That  soft,  balmy,  starlit  night, 
When  we  watched  the  clouds  together 

In  our  childhood's  home  so  bright  ; 
When  I  checked  your  merry  laughter, 

Which  rang  joyously  and  gay, 
And  first  told  you  of  the  sorrow 

That  was  eating  life  away  ? 

(109) 


110  LOVE'S    LAST    REQUEST. 

Needless  question — needless  answer — 

It  is  graven  on  my  heart 
In  characters  so  fiery 

That  it  never  can  depart. 
I  remember,  when  I  told  you, 

That  your  face  was  very  white 
As  the  moonbeams  fell  upon  it 

On  that  balmy,  starlit  night. 

In  that  rosewood  box,  dear  sister, 

Resting  on  the  table  near, 
You  will  find  his  cherished  letters — 

Read  them  so  that  I  may  hear. 
I  have  often  wept  above  them, 

In  the  midnight  still  and  cold  ; — 
Let  me  listen  to  each  sentence 

That  so  thrilled  my  heart  of  old. 

You  will  also  find  his  picture — 

Bring  it  closer  to  the  light ; 
I  would  look  upon  each  feature 

Ere  my  eyes  have  failed  me  quite. 
Let  me  watch  those  dark  eyes  beaming 

With  the  tenderness  of  yore  ; 
Let  me  see  that  sweet  lip  smiling, 

Though  it  smile  for  me  no  more. 

Hold  the  picture  for  me,  darling, 
For  my  hands  are  very  weak  • 

Press  the  cold  glass  gently,  sister, 
To  my  lips  and  to  my  cheek. 


LOVES    LAST   REQUEST. 

1  would  fancy  that  his  kisses 

Fell  upon  my  face  again  ; 
Making  youth  a  thing  of  sunshine, 

Robbing  life  of  half  its  pain. 

Ah  !  I  cannot  read  his  letters, 

I  am  blinded  by  my  tears — 
Love,  untie  that  silken  ribbon 

Which  has  bound  them  many  years. 
Read  them  all  to  me,  sweet  sister, 

From  the  first  one  to  the  last ; 
I  would  dream  my  love-dream  over, 

I  would  live  again  the  past ! 

Read  that  little  sentence  over, 

Where  he  said  he  loved  me  yet ; 
And  remembered  that  sweet  ramble 

On  the  eve  that  first  we  met. 
Brightly  beamed  his  dark  eyes,  lighting 

Up  his  pale  but  noble  brow — 
Years  have  passed  since  then,  dear  sister, 

But  I  seem  to  see  him  now. 

We  have  loved  ! — and  we  are  parted  ! 

He,  to  seek  for  health  afar, 
I,  to  lead  a  life  as  rayless 

As  a  night  without  a  star  ! 
For  disease  as  slow  as  fatal, 

Doomed  us  in  our  youth  to  part ; 
Made  of  him  a  wanderer  lonely, 

Stole  hi?  joy — and  broke  my  heart. 


112  LOVE'S    LAST    REQUEST. 

I  have  never  learned,  sweet  sister, 

That  his  sufferings  are  o'er  ; 
And  perchance  he  still  doth  linger 

On  this  weary,  joyless  shore. 
Should  you  ever  meet  him,  darling, — 

Listen,  catch  my  faintest  breath, — 
Tell  him  that  I  loved  him  always, 

And  was  faithful  unto  death. 

Give  me  now  your  hand,  my  sister, 

Mine  is  very  thin  and  white  ; 
Kiss  my  pale  and  icy  forehead, 

Breathe  to  me  the  last  good-night. 
Turn  to  me — my  sight  is  failing — 

Yet  once  more  your  gentle  face  ; — 
When  you  wake  you'll  find  me  sleeping 

In  death's  stern  and  cold  embrace. 

When  the  last  hard  struggle  's  ended, 

And  they've  robed  me  for  the  tomb, 
Strew  my  bier  with  pale  white  blossoms 

Such  as  in  the  autumn  bloom. 
And  that  lovely,  dark-eyed  picture, 

And  the  letters  you  have  read, 
Place  them  with  me,  dearest  sister, 

In  the  coffin — when  I'm  dead  ! 


AN  AUTUMN    REVERIE. 

I  AM  alone  with  Nature,  and  the  sun 

Is  slowly  sinking  o'er  the  mountain's  height ; — 

A  few  white  clouds  are  pacing  lazily 

The  azure  skies  ;  and  like  a  faint  far  speck 

One  star  is  seen — a  solitary  star, 

Walking  its  weary  round  in  lonely  pride, 

Alone,  as  thou  art  now. 

The  rich  bright  hues 

Of  purple  and  of  gold — the  faithful  type 
Of  royalty — across  the  heavens  are  thrown, 
The  shadow  of  those  regal  robes  which  Day 
Has  worn  so  proudly  ;  and  the  sunset  clouds 
Are  tinged  with  radiant  tints  morn  never  knew. 
It  is  an  Autumn  evening,  and  the  hush 
Which  broodeth  over  Nature's  placid  face, 
Is  like  the  gentle  sleep  which  falls  upon 
Fair  childhood's  sinless  brow.     And  in  the  woods, — 
Not  yet  decayed  by  Winter's  frosty  breath, — 
We  trace  the  footprints  of  the  Summer  queen  ; 
A  few  short  weeks,  and  these,  the  last  fair  marks 
Her  rosy  steps  have  made,  will  fade  away, 
As  fades  the  memory  of  the  loved  and  lost 
From  careless  souls.     The  last  white  buds  will  die 
As  died  Spring's  violets  ;  the  wild-wood  pink 
Will  breathe  to  passing  winds  its  latest  sigh, 
And,  opening  its  fair  petals  timidly, 

(113) 


114  AN    AUTUMN    REVERIE. 

Receive  the  last  warm  kiss  the  sun  doth  give, 
Then  fade  to  nothingness.     Yon  murmuring  stream, 
Which  glideth  swiftly  orer  its  pebbly  bed, 
And  singeth  to  the  woods  a  tender  lay, 
Half  sad,  half  happy,  like  young  love's  first  dream, 
Will  hush  its  song  ;  and  yonder  cascade  gay, 
Which  trickles  lightly  o'er  the  rock's  stern  height, 
Will  find  no  voice.     The  yellow,  withered  leaves, 
Which  fall  with  sad  and  melancholy  sound, 
As  loath  to  touch  the  cold,  half-frozen  earth, 
Will  form  for  careless  feet  a  carpet  brown  ; — 
Yes  !  over  all  there  will  be  dark  and  mist, — 
Below,  decay. 

And  yet  how  wondrous  beautiful 
Is  the  old  year  even  in  its  dying  hour  : 
The  russet  garb  in  which  he  veils  his  form 
Is  fairer  than  the  green-leaved  robe  of  Spring  ; 
The  sombre  hues,  so  richly,  darkly  brown, 
Are  lovelier  than  the  gauze-like  covering 
Fair  Summer  wore.     And  I  can  dream  I  hear 
A  voice  of  sad  and  deep  solemnity, 
Which  seems  to  whisper  in  my  weary  ear, 
"  Death  is  more  beautiful  than  life." 
Aye,  give  to  me 

The  sober  Autumn.     Spring,  though  fair  to  view, 
Is  too  unquiet  for  a  heart  like  mine  : 
Its  smile  is  too  deceitful,  and  its  rays 
Of  sunshine  only  hide  the  coming  frown  ; 
Its  showers  are  too  plentiful — its  clouds 
Come  all  too  quickly  when  we  think  them  far. 
Yes ! — Spring  to  me  is  like  the  heart  of  youth 


AN    AUTUMN    REVERIE.  115 

Which  knows  no  rest :  now  swayed  by  joyous  hope, 

And  now  the  victim  of  a  hidden  fear. 

Ah,  yes  !  the  morn  of  life  which  some  call  bright 

Is  full  of  restless  longings — pining  thoughts. 

Which  scorn  reality,  and  haunting  dreams, 

That  in  the  realms  of  the  ideal  seek 

The  happiness  they  cannot  and  in  Truth. 

And  youth  is  full  of  vague  inquietude  ; 

Its  very  joy  is  restless  ;  and  'tis  swayed 

Forever,  like  a  moving  pendulum — 

1  Between  a  smile  and  tear  ' — and  never  knows 

The  peace  of  quiet.     Oh  !  my  heart  would  pray  : 

Leave  me,  my  youth  ! — pass  on — pass  quickly  on  ! 

However  swift  thy  tread,  thou'lt  not  depart 

Too  rapidly. 

I  like  not  Summer's  air, 
Its  hot  sirocco-touch  comes  o'er  my  cheek 
Like  the  warm  breath  of  passion  too  impure  ; 
Its  very  beauties  but  do  whisper  me 
Their  short-livedness.     I  never  see  its  flowers 
But  I  must  feel  they  bloom  but  for  a  day  ; 
And  when  its  skies  are  brightest,  then  my  heart 
Is  painfully  impressed  with  the  sad  thought 
That  glittering  pageants  are  the  first  to  fade, 
And  loveliest  buds  can  only  ope  to  die. 
But  Autumn,  calmly,  coldly  beautiful ! 
Thy  quiet  wins  my  soul.     There  is  a  peace 
Dwells  in  thy  gentle  breath  ;  and  in  the  meek, 
Sad  look  with  which  thou  dost  resign  thyself 
To  Winter's  cold  embrace,  I  seem  to  read 
Thy  lovely  patience  and  thy  gentle  trust ; 


116  AN    AUTUMN    REVERIE. 

And  some  sweet  spirit-voice  doth  sing  to  me : 
"  I  perish  here,  but  I  shall  bloom  in  heaven." 
Yes :  thou  art  like  old  age — that  calm  old  age 
I  look  on  with  such  envy — happy  age  ! 
Whose  worldly  aspirations  all  are  dead, — 
Whose  earthly  hopes  have  perished  like  a  dream, — 
Whose  restlessness  is  swallowed  up  in  meekness. — 
Whose  very  sorrow  has  no  bitterness, — 
Whose  joys  and  griefs  have  found  a  tomb  so  long, 
They  are  but  memories,  chastened  and  subdued. 
And  have  for  thee  no  greater  bliss  nor  pain 
Than  has  a  brief  night  vision,  which  the  morn 
Doth  swiftly  chase  away.     I  realize 
The  life  immortal  when  I  gaze  upon 
A  silvered  head  ;  the  meekly  patient  soul 
Doth  seem  to  say,  "  I  care  not  for  the  seams 
Which  Time  has  left  upon  this  whitened  cheek, 
Nor  for  the  lustre  which  these  eyes  have  lost. 
Nor  for  the  rose-tint  which  has  left  my  lip  ; 
For  these  are  mortal  things.     I  know  that  I 
Shall  live  again,  and  far  beyond  the  grave 
Shall  know  a  youth  which  never  can  grow  old." 
Oh,  Autumn  !  calm,  and  beautiful,  and  grand  ! 
Thou  teachest  words  of  wisdom  to  my  heart. 
And  something  in  thy  mute  and  still  decay 
Doth  whisper  of  another,  purer  life. 

0  thou ! 

For  whom  this  rambling  evening  song  began — 
Thou  lost  one,  loved  too  well !—  say,  dost  thou  grieve 
That  my  lone  harp  hath  learned  such  mournful  tone, 
So  different  from  the  wild,  gay  songs  it  breathed 


AN    AUTUMN    REVERIE.  117 

When  first  we  met  in  childhood's  cloudless  morn  ? 
Oh  !  'twas  thy  love  that  made  life  beautiful  ; 
And  now  that  thy  sweet  presence  is  withdrawn, 
What  wonder  if  my  lyre,  type  of  myself, 
I  lath  caught  "  the  trick  of  grief." 

I  cannot  frame 

A  happy  chant  when  thou,  love,  art  afar  : 
The  words  die  out  in  mockery,  and  my  soul 
Shrinks  from  a  tone  that  seems  to  breathe  of  joy. 
The  whole  wide  world  seems  but  a  burial-ground  ; 
And  all  the  voices  nature  tunes  at  eve 
Are  sounding  dirges.     Ah  !  my  lonely  heart 
Can  chime  its  chords  to  joyance  never  more, 
For  joy  is  dead  ;  and  on  the  broken  throne, 
Where  Hope  once  sat  as  proudly  as  a  queen, 
Despair  is  crouched.     Sorrow  has  breathed  upon 
The  sun-bright  wreaths  young  fantasy  once  wore, 
And  they  are  withered  garlands.     Grief  has  robbed 
Fair  Joy  of  her  crown  ;  and  on  Tier  pallid  brow 
She  wears  it  mockingly.     Yes — in  my  heart, 
Deep  hidden  in  its  unseen  secret  cells, 
There  lie  as  many  perished  buds  of  love 
As  Autumn  hath  of  pale  and  withered  leaves 
And  faded  wildwood  flowers. 

Thou  art  afar  ! — 

That  one  short  sentence  holdeth  more  of  woe 
Than  page  on  page  of  closely  written  book. 
The  wild-waved  sea  doth  roll  between  thy  form 
And  mine.     Thy  rose-wreathed  lips  for  others  smile  ; 
Thine  eyes  gaze  on  a  distant  sun  at  eve  ; — 
High  mountains  roll  between  us,  and  alas  ! 


118  AN    AUTUMN    REVERIE. 

Long,  weary  miles,  aye  leagues,  do  us  divide. 
Yet  my  wild  love,  which  claims  and  knows  no  bound- 
Love,  deeper  than  the  ocean's  boasted  depths — 
Love,  stronger  than  the  mountains  high  and  proud — 
Leaps  over  all,  and  with  its  spirit-eyes 
Doth  gaze  upon  thy  face,  to  mark  the  flush 
Which  rises  o'er  thy  forehead  ;  and  to  look 
With  worship  deep  upon  thy  soul-lit  brow. 
Say,  does  my  pictured  image  ever  rise 
Before  thee  ?     Does  my  earnest,  tender  glance 
E'er  woo  thee  to  the  happy,  perished  past, 
When  thou  and  I  saw  mirrored  in  the  world 
Naught  but  each  other's  faces  ?     Docs  the  day 
Which  finds  us  still  apart,  seem  to  thy  heart 
An  endless  century  ?     The  weary  week 
Which  still  divides  us,  multiply  to  thee. 
Until  it  seems  a  dull  eternity  ? 
And  dost  thou  pray,  like  me,  that  when  again 
The  Autumn  comes  to  strew  the  dusty  plain 
With  withered  leaves  and  flowers,  that  thou  and  I, 
Unmindful  of  the  fate  which  parted  us, 
And  of  the  destiny  which  bade  us  love 
No  more,  will  meet — on  earth  ? — no  !  not  on  earth  ! 
In  heaven ! 


THE   MORNING   LIGHT. 

I  COME — the  first  grey  light  of  dawn, 

To  herald  in  approaching  day, 
To  rouse  thee  for  the  coming  work. 

And  scatter  night's  dark  shades  away. 
And  with  the  first  unfolding  beam 

Which  on  the  eastern  sky  doth  shine, 
I  dissipate  some  pleasant  dream 

Which  round  thy  heart  didst  fondly  twine. 

I  cast  my  ray  upon  thy  cheek 

With  touch  unfeeling,  heartless,  cold, 
And  rudely  break  the  gentle  sleep 

That  wraps  thce  like  an  ermine  fold. 
The  visions  sweet  which  night  doth  bring, 

Dreams  sent  through  slumber's  ivory  gate, 
I  cause  to  fly  on  rapid  wing 

And  leave  the  sick  heart  desolate. 

The  wretch  who  doth  awhile  forget 

Earth's  weary  burden  and  its  pain, 
1  summon  without  one  regret 

To  life  and  misery  again. 
Too  soon  I  bid  him  walk  again 

On  dull  reality's  cold  shore, — 
The  wretch  who,  when  he  closed  his  eyes, 

Had  vainly  hoped  to  wake  no  more. 

(119) 


120  THE    MORNING    LIGHT. 

The  orphan  unto  whom  the  night 

Had  shown  a  mother's  gentle  brow — 
Oh!  how  she  loathes  the  morning  light, 

And  wildly  weeps,  "  No  mother  now  !" 
She  feels  that  mother's  loving  kiss, 

And  hears  that  voice  which  breathes.  "  My  child 
She  slumbers  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 

And  wakes  to  anguish  deep  and  wild. 

And  sleep  comes  like  a  dream  of  heaven, 

Soothing  away  the  torturing  pain 
Of  her  whose  widowed  heart  is  given 

To  one  she  ne'er  may  see  again. 
She  feels  once  more  a  loving  arm 

About  her  twined — her  guide — her  stay  ; 
Her  heart  is  pressed  to  one  as  warm — 

Oh  !  how  she  loathes  the  light  of  day. 

But  I — uncaring  how  she  wept, 

Till  sleep  came  on  to  chase  her  pain, 
And  pleasant  dreams  around  her  crept — 

I  waken  her  to  life  again  : — 
I  bid  her  bear  once  more  the  grief 

Too  dark,  too  heavy  far  for  youth, 
And  call  her  from  her  slumber  brief, 

To  truth — to  cold,  relentless  truth ! 


F  O  R  G  E  T  F  U  L  N  E  S  S  . 

GIVE  me  forgetfulness  ! — I  ask  no  boon 

From  heaven,  but  Lethe's  calm  and  quiet  wave  ; 
And  if  oblivion  is  not  elsewhere  found, 

Then  give  to  me  the  still  and  peaceful  grave. 
The  fearful  fire  mounts  upward  to  my  brain  ! — 

My  senses  reel  and  swim  ! — my  heart  is  wild  ! — 
Speak  not ! — your  words  are  idle — worse  than  vain, 

For  who  can  comfort  me,  the  orphan  child  ? 
Away  with  sympathy — with  words  of  love  ! — 
Let  me  forget ! 

Give  me  forgetfulness  ! — let  me  blot  out 

The  past,  with  all  its  madness  and  its  pain  : 
One  draught  from  cool  oblivion's  placid  pool, 

"  To  lay  the  phantoms  of  a  fevered  brain." 
Oh  !  shall  my  anguished  prayer  be  all  in  vain  ? 

I  ask  not  honor,  fortune,  fame,  nor  yet 
The  wild  deep  love  for  which  my  soul  once  longed 

Until  my  heavy  eyes  with  tears  were  wet ; — 
Oh,  no  ! — I  ask  not  fading  vanities  ! — 
Let  me  forget ! 

Ha  !  what  could  bring  it  ?     Could  my  heart  forget 
The  snowy  sheet  ?  the  coffin-pillowed  head  ? 
6  (12D 


122  FORGETFULNESS. 

The  pale  white  lips  so  icy  and  so  chill  ? — 
Could  I  forget  I  have  a  mother  dead  ? 

God  help  me ! — Lethe  's  but  a  fabled  wave 
And  cannot  soothe  the  maddened  spirit's  strife — 

Quiet  the  hungry  soul —  still  the  wild  heart — 
No ! — memory  can  only  end  with  life  : — 

Then  take,  take  back  the  cup  scarce  tasted  yet, 
And  let  me  die  ! 


TO   LITTLE   STEVIE. 

THERE'S  naught  on  earth  can  gladden  me 

Like  childhood's  sunny  look  ; 
It  teaches  holier  things  to  me 

Than  e'er  was  gleaned  from  book  : 
It  seemeth  like  a  glimpse  of  heaven 

To  gaze  upon  a  child, 
And  watch  the  guileless  baby-brow 

No  sin  hath  e'er  defiled. 

It  minds  me  of  a  joyous  time, 

When  I  was  light  and  free  ; 
When  every  little  simple  thing 

Brought  happiness  to  me. 
And  when  I  see  the  artless  smile 

That  once  my  own  lip  wore, 
I  feel  I'd  give  my  all  on  earth 

To  be  a  child  once  more. 

I  saw  thee,  little  cherub  one, 

For  only  one  short  hour  ; 
Yet  oh  !  I  blessed  the  God  who  gave 

To  earth  so  fair  a  flower. 
And  as  I  twined  thy  golden  curls, 

And  kissed  thy  baby-brow, 
I  prayed  that  life  might  always  be 

As  bright  for  thee  as  now. 

I'd  grieve  to  think  upon  thy  face 
A  cloud  should  ever  rest : 

(123) 


124  TO    LITTLE    STEVIE. 

Or  in  that  merry  heart  of  thine, 
Grief  e'er  should  build  her  nest. 

I'd  grieve  to  think  thy  confidence, 
Thy  trust,  should  e'er  depart ; 

And  sorrow,  like  a  serpent,  coil 
About  thy  guileless  heart. 

The  time  may  come  when  nevermore 

A  smile  thy  cheek  shall  wear  ; 
When  in  that  bosom,  peaceful  now, 

Shall  lay  a  chill  despair. 
For  oh  !  this  is  a  weary  world, 

And  full  of  grief  and  pain  ; 
And  childhood's  joy,  so  brief  at  best, 

Can  never  come  again. 

Once  life  for  me  was  bright  as  thine, 

Thou  little  baby-boy ! 
And  happiness  dwelt  too  for  me 

In  bird,  and  flower,  and  toy  : — 
But  oh  !  how  soon  that  summer-time 

Fled  from  my  heart  away  ; 
The  flowers  died  and  left  the  thorns, 

And  night  obscured  the  day. 

Yet  this  is  not  a  prophecy — 

Thy  lonely  stranger  friend, 
In  bitter  memory  of  the  past 

This  little  verse  hath  penned. 
And  if  I  feared  thy  silver  voice 

Might  lose  its  merry  tone  ; 
Thy  heart  its  trust  and  joy — 'twas  but 

Remembrance  of  my  own. 


TO    LITTLE    STEVIE.  125 

Oh,  no  ! — I'll  pray  that  thy  young  heart 

May  never  taste  of  woe  ; 
Nor  realize  the  bitterness 

It  is  my  lot  to  know  : 
No  ; — may  the  rosy  cup  of  joy 

Ne'er  from  thy  lip  be  turned — 
Thy  heart  be  taught  those  lessons  sad 

That  mine  so  early  learned. 

I  ne'er  may  see  thy  face  again, 

Thou  little  baby-boy  ! 
Or  press  thee  fondly  to  my  heart, 

In  deep  out-gushing  joy. 
I  ne'er  may  part  the  silken  curls 

From  off  thy  forehead  fair, 
To  gaze  within  thy  deep  blue  eyes, 

And  leave  a  fond  kiss  there. 

Thy  artless  words  of  innocence 

May  never  reach  my  ear  ; 
The  patter  of  thy  tiny  feet 

I  never  more  may  hear  : — 
Yet,  little  Stevie, — darling  one  ! 

Although  the  wide-waved  sea 
Should  rise  between  thy  home  and  mine, 

My  heart  shall  go  with  thee. 

When  years  have  left  their  impress  there. 

Upon  thy  sunny  brow, 
May  the  same  trust  and  confidence 

Be  still  thine  own  as  now  : 


126  TO    LITTLE   STEVIE. 

Thy  heart  as  light  and  free  from  care, 

Thy  soul  as  undefiled — 
Oh,  yes  !  may  manhood  realize 

The  promise  of  the  child. 

I  bless  thee,  guileless  little  one  ! 

That  I  have  met  thee  here  ; 
And  when  I  say  good-bye  to  thee, 

I'll  breathe  it  with  a  tear  ; — 
For  when  I  heard  thine  artless  speech, 

And  looked  into  thine  eyes, 
It  gave  me  in  this  weary  world 

A  glimpse  of  Paradise. 

Thou  seem'st  to  me  an  angel  sent 

From  yon  pure  heaven  above, 
To  glad  the  drooping  ones  of  earth 

And  fill  their  souls  with  love. 
And  oh  !  that  heaven  of  which  I  dream 

Seems  brighter  far  to  me, 
Since  I  have  looked  upon  thy  face — 

'Tis  filled  with  such  as  thee  1 

Dear  little  Stevie  !  when  long  years 

Above  my  head  have  rolled, 
My  heart  shall  love  the  little  boy, 

The  boy  of  two  years  old  ; — 
And  oh  !  when  thou  hast  learned  to  read 

These  fancies  vague  and  wild. 
Think  kindly  of  the  stranger  friend 

Who  blessed  thee  when  a  child. 


HEART     ILLUSION. 

"  'Tis  not  so  much  a  broken  heart  we  mourn  as  a  broken  dream." 

IK  MARVEL 

COLD  as  the  winter  winds  which  sigh 

Through  the  giant  pines  their  wailing  song  ; 
Cold,  and  cruel,  and  hard,  ah  me ! 

Is  the  heart  of  the  youth  I  have  loved  so  long  ! 
The  priceless  treasures,  unvalued  gems, 

With  which  my  impetuous  heart  did  teem, 
I  threw  at  his  feet  with  a  reckless  hand  ; 

And  I  mourn,  oh !  I  mourn  my  broken  dream. 

Cold  and  hard  is  the  marble  slab, 

Cruel  and  cold  is  the  wintry  blast ; 
But  more  unfeeling,  and  twice  as  cold, 

Is  the  idol  I  loved  in  the  perished  past. 
But  I've  torn  the  god  from  his  sacred  shrine  ; 

No  more  like  a  blind  idolater  bow  ; 
And  the  heart  that  was  warm  when  my  life  was  new. 

Is  like  his  own — as  lifeless  now. 

It  quivers  no  more  with  an  aching  pang  ; 

It  trembles  no  longer  with  sudden  start : 
My  pulse  was  as  quiet  and  calm  as  his 

When  I  breathed  the  words  which  bade  us  part. 
And — strange,  strange  feeling  of  stranger  man ! — 

It  was  valued  most  when  he  knew  it  lost ; 
The  love  that  is  dead  he  would  purchase  now. 

Although  his  life-blood  were  the  cost. 

(127) 


128  HEART    ILLUSION. 

With  an  ashy  cheek  and  a  blanching  lip 

He  breathed  in  the  tenderest  tones  ray  name  ; 
But  in  vain  he  knelt,  and  in  vain  he  prayed, — 

Ashes  gave  back  no  answering  flame. 
;Tis  said  that  a  worm  will  turn,  when  crushed, 

On  the  pitiless  heel,  and  with  bitter  sting 
Inflict  one  blow  in  its  weak  revenge, 

Ere  it  lieth  in  death  a  mangled  thing  : 
But  not  in  bitterness,  not  in  scorn 

Did  I  thy  proffered  love  resign  ; 
The  heart  that  would  fain  have  melted  then, 

And  pitied  thy  woe,  was  no  longer  thine. 

Not  thine !  not  thine  ! — for  neglect  had  chilled 

The  love  that  for  thee  for  years  had  grown  ; 
And  the  heart  thy  cold  indifference  spurned 

Was,  like  a  Niobe,  turned  to  stone. 
I  had  worshipped  a  being  my  brain  had  made, 

With  a  face  like  thine,  but  a  heart  all  true, 
That  beat  like  mine  with  impassioned  throb  ; — 

I  had  worshipped  an  ideal  one — not  you. 


My  heart  is  dead  !  it  will  love  no  more  ; 

It  was  murdered — crushed  in  that  bitter  strife 
Yet  it  feels  no  throb  of  joy  to  know 

That  thine — thine  too  is  a  blighted  life. 
I  can  forgive  thee  the  bitter  wrong, 

For  I  only  loved  what  thou  didst  seem ; 
And  I  mourn — but  not  for  a  broken  heart 

I  mourn — I  mourn  for  a  broken  dream. 


MODERN     LOVE. 

'Tis  well  to  prate  in  senseless  rhyme 
Of  love  that  changeth  not  with  time  ; 
To  tell  in  verse  of  Cupid's  dart, 
Of  bitter  smart,  and  broken  heart. 
That  last  we  well  know  nowadays 
Is  known  but  in  the  Poet's  lays  ; 
For  love  is  but  a  golden  passion, 
And  broken  hearts  are  out  of  fashion. 
Fair  Susan  falls  in  love  with  Jim, 
And  vows  she  dreams  of  only  him  ; 
She  wears  his  image  in  her  breast, 
And  he  her  rose-bud  at  his  vest. 
But  John  steps  in  with  weightier  purse, 
And  sings  her  praise  in  sweeter  verse  ; 
Each  eve  his  tap  is  at  the  door, — 
He  wears  the  flowers  Jim  wore  before  ; 
Of  evenings  they  walk  out  together, 
And  sigh,  and  talk  about  the  weather, 
Until  one  day  the  word  is  spoken, 
And  all  her  former  vows  are  broken. 
"  To  Guinea  "  then  poor  Jim  may  go, 
She  jilts  him  for  the  richer  beau  ; 
His  gifts  returned — his  name  forgot ; — 
So  much  for  love  that  changeth  not ! 

Soft  Araminta  sighs  beneath  the  stars, 
And  dreams  of  Fred,  that  gallant  son  of  Mars. 
6*  (129) 


130  MODERN    LOVE. 

The  bitter  tears  she  sheds  might  serve  to  float 

(If  one  would  save  them  all)  a  small-sized  boat. 

She  looks  up  to  the  moon,  and  bids  it  tell 

Some  tidings  of  the  one  she  loves  so  well. 

She  asks  the  breeze,  which  floats  on  airy  wing, 

Some  message  from  the  absent  one  to  bring. 

In  silly  accents  she  implores  the  flowers 

To  waft  his  spirit  to  their  Eden  bowers. 

She  begs  the  stream  to  yonder  battle  run, 

And  tell  her  Frederick  that  she  "  loves  but  one." 

She  looks  upon  the  glossy  lock  of  hair 

That  clustered  o'er  the  brow  she  deems  so  fair  ; 

She  kisses,  too,  the  picture  that  he  gave, 

When  first  he  said  he  was  her  willing  slave. 

She  strings  together  many  a   silly  rhyme 

Of  him  who  fights  beneath  a  foreign  clime  ; 

She  calls  him  "  gallant,"  and  she  dubs  him  "  brave  ;" 

And  vows  that  if  he  fills  a  soldier's  grave, 

She'll  wear  the  "  weeds,"  and  to  some  cave  depart, 

Till  death  shall  come  to  ease  her  breaking  heart ; 

For  what  is  life  without  her  Fred,  its  sun  ? 

Die,  then,  she  must,  for  she  can  "  love  but  one  /" 

Months  pass  away — and  mark,  oh !  mark  the  change ! 

This  faithful  one,  whom  naught  could  e'er  estrange, 

Grows  tired  of  waiting,  kisses  Fred  less  oft, 

And  then — conveys  his  picture  to  the  loft ! 

She  hears  he's  lost  an  eye — she  sighs  "  Poor  Fred  !" 

Once  what  a  sea  of  tears  she  would  have  shed ! — 

"  A  one-eyed  lover  !"  Araminta  sighs  ; 

And  thinks  of  Harry  Clare,  who  has  two  eyes, 

And  looks  at  her  with  them  when  down  Broad  street 

She  goes — but  not,  of  course,  that  gent  to  meet. 


MODERN   LOVE.  131 

Then,  Hal  is  handsome,  too,  and  "  cuts  a  dash," 
Rides  a  fast  nag,  and  sports  a  black  moustache  ; 
Even  Fred,  the  hero,  can't  at  all  compare 
With  that  be  whiskered  "  darling,"  Harry  Clare  : 
She  wonders  how  she  e'er  had  loved  him  so  ; 
And  answers  "  Yes  "  to  Hal,  instead  of  "  No." 
When  Fred  returns,  a  victor  of  renown, 
At  her  fair  feet  to  lay  his  trophies  down, 
He  learns  that  Araminta,  faithless  fair, 
Is  wedded  to  his  rival,  Harry  Clare  ! ! 


"  I'll  love  but  thee,"  the  young  bride  said  ; 
"  I'll  love  thee  even  when  thou  art  dead  ; 
Henceforth  there's  naught  for  me  but  woe — 
No  other  love  this  heart  shall  know. 
I'll  strew  your  grave  with  sweetest  flowers, 
And  there  I'll  spend  life's  weary  hours. 
My  sky  is  clouded  o'er  with  gloom  ; 
My  heart  I'll  bury  in  your  tomb. 
When  thou  art  in  the  spirit-land, 
Should  any  other  seek  my  hand, 
I'll  bring  him  to  your  grave,  my  dear, 
And  say, '  My  love  is  buried  here.' 
My  life  will  know  no  opening  ray, 
When  thou,  loved  one,  hast  passed  away  ; 
Oh !  leave  me  not !"  in  grief  she  cried  ; — 
Vain  was  the  prayer, — he  smiled — and  died  ! 
She  wore  her  "  widow's  weeds  "  awhile, 
And  was  not  seen  for  days  to  smile  ; 
And  'neath  the  folds  of  crape  and  lace 
Was  seen  a  sad  and  weary  face. 


132  MODERN    LOVE. 

At  first  that  portrait  on  the  wall 

Was  kissed  each  day — then  not  at  all : 

Tom  Hanton  called  on  her  one  day, 

And  then  she  had  it  moved  away. 

Tom  sent  her  flowers  ; — an  act  so  kind, 

So  delicate,  and  so  refined, 

"Went  to  that  lonely  widow's  heart, 

And  caused  it  many  a  throb  and  start. 

Tom  drove  her  out, — "  that  good  young  man  ;" 

He  tied  her  glove — he  held  her  fan  ; 

And  as  he  drove,  declared  the  skies 

Were  not  so  blue  as  her  bright  eyes. 

He  said  her  brow  was  very  fair, 

And  shadows  had  no  business  there  : 

The  widow  answered  with  a  blush, 

"  You  men  do  natter  so — pray  hush." 

So  when  the  flowers  came  again 

To  deck  that  grave  upon  the  plain, 

The  widow's-cap  was  laid  aside, 

And  she  went  forth  once  more  a  bride. 

So  much  for  widows  broken-hearted, 

Who  weep  about  the  "  dear  departed." 

Now,  poetasters,  cease  your  love-sick  lays  ; 
Unchanging  love's  a  humbug  nowadays. 
While  truth  so  plainly  stares  you  in  the  eyes, 
How  can  you  chant  of  love  that  never  dies  ? 
Devotion  passed  away  in  olden  time, 
Or  only  lives  in  your  disjointed  rhyme ; 
Then  prate  no  more  of  maidens  all  forlorn, — 
Othello-like,  "  your  occupation's  gone." 


"I   WISH   SOMEBODY   WOULD   COME." 

SHE  sat  in  the  gathering  twilight — 

That  maiden  so  wondrous  fair — 
Bright  roses  were  in  her  bosom. 

And  roses  were  in  her  hair. 
The  bee  on  the  woodbine  near  her 

Kept  up  an  incessant  hum  ; 
And  this  was  the  theme  of  the  maiden's  song  : 

"  Oh  !  I  wish  somebody  would  come  !" 

The  shadows  of  twilight  lengthened, 

The  lamps,  with  a  flickering  light, 
Like  so  many  watch-fires  twinkled, 

And  told  of  the  coming  night. 
Still  the  maiden  sat  watching,  and  hoping, 

Sighing,  "  Wanderer,  where  do  you  roam  ?" 
While  her  heart  was  throbbing  the  same  sad  words : 

"  Oh !  I  wish  somebody  would  come  1" 

The  shades  nestled  deep  in  the  corners, 

The  clock  on  the  mantel  struck  eight ; 
She  sighed,  as  she  threw  back  her  tresses, 

"  0  dear !  it  is  growing  so  late  !" 
The  stars  came  forth,  sister  watchers, 

And  burned  in  their  mystical  home  ; 
While  sadder  the  voice  of  the  maiden  grew  : 

"  Oh  !  I  wish  somebody  would  come  !" 

(1831 


134  "I   WISH    SOMEBODY    WOULD    COME." 

Still  waited  the  weary  watcher  ; 

The  moon  on  the  lonely  hill 
Went  down,  and  a  solemn  night-music 

"Was  played  by  the  murmuring  rill. 
No  voice  disturbeth  the  silence — 

'Tis  night  in  her  heart  and  home  ; 
And  the  maiden  feels  that  she  vainly  sung — 

"  Oh  !  I  wish  somebody  would  come  1" 


AT    REST. 

STILL  and  cold  and  pale  she  lieth, 

On  her  couch  of  snow  ; 
Hushed  the  heart's  tumultuous  throbbing, 

Hushed  to  earthly  woe  ; 
Nevermore  that  pulseless  bosom 

Bitter  grief  shall  know. 

While  the  sun  is  setting  calmly 

In  yon  cloud-capped  West, 
Fold  the  lily  hands  so  gently 

On  the  silent  breast ; 
Tenderly  and  kindly  leave  her 

To  her  last  sweet  rest. 

Close  the  waxen  eyelids  softly 

O'er  the  midnight  eyes  ; 
From  those  lips,  all  cold  and  voiceless, 

Come  no  sweet  replies  ; 
Love  the  last  fond  word  has  spoken — 

Still  and  pale  she  lies. 

Strew  the  summer  blossoms  gently 

On  the  shroud's  white  fold  ; 
Clip  one  soft  and  silken  ringlet 

From  the  forehead  cold  ; 
For  the  graveyard  now  is  claiming 

All  those  threads  of  gold. 

(135) 


136  AT    REST. 

Lilies  white  and  violets  purple 

Place  upon  her  brow  ; 
Like  them  she  was  fair  and  fragile — 

Strew  them  o'er  her  now  ; 
Then  beside  her  couch  so  snowy, 

Lowly,  humbly  bow. 

Bitter  was  her  young  life's  morning, 

But  the  grief  is  past ; 
And  upon  the  fair  pale  forehead 

Death's  dark  shade  is  cast ; — 
Push  aside  her  ringlets  gently, 

Take  one  kiss — thy  last. 

Never  more  with  sigh  of  anguish 
Shall  those  cold  lips  part ; 

Never  more  from  those  closed  eyelids 
Bitter  tear-drops  start ; 

Never  more  shall  blame  or  sorrow 
Nestle  on  her  heart. 

Never  more  shall  arrows  piercing, 

Reach  her  bosom  fair  ; 
Nor  upon  those  chiselled  features 

Linger  shades  of  care  ; — 
On  her  couch  of  snow  she  lieth — 

Angels  guard  her  there  1 

When  with  tears  of  bitter  weeping 

He  shall  come  again, 
Tell  him  his  remorseful  sorrow 


AT   REST.  137 

Now  is  all  in  vain  ; 
Tell  him  she  is  sweetly  sleeping, 
Free  from  grief  and  pain. 

Tell  him  that  in  death  she  blessed  him, 

Though  he  dealt  the  blow 
Which,  in  all  her  youth  and  beauty, 

Laid  our  darling  low — 
Laid  her  like  a  faded  blossom 

On  her  couch  of  snow. 

And  when  in  the  restless  midnight 

Memories  arise, 
And  the  watchful  stars  are  peeping 

From  the  silent  skies, 
Well  I  know  he  will  be  haunted 

By  her  earnest  eyes. 

Ope  the  window-shutters  softly, — 

Do  not  wildly  weep  ; 
Let  the  stars  of  heaven  above  her, 

Lonely  vigils  keep  ; 
Draw  the  drapery  around  her, 

Let  her  sweetly  sleep. 

On  the  morrow  gently  bear  her 

Towards  the  setting  sun  ; 
And,  when  all  the  lamps  of  evening 

Twinkle,  one  by  one, 
Lay  her  in  the  grand  old  forest, 

For  her  life  is  done. 


MY     MOTHER'S     GRAVE. 

IN  yon  graveyard  by  the  river, 

Where  cold  marble  tombstones  glisten, 
They  have  buried  her — my  mother, — 

And  I  listen — vainly  listen 
For  the  voice  that  soothed  my  sorrow, 
Telling  of  a  bright  to-morrow, — 
Listen  for  it  in  the  morning, 
Listen  for  it  in  the  twilight ; 

But  it  comes  to  me  no  more  I 

There  the  lonely  pine-trees  beckon  ; 

There  the  moonbeams  love  to  linger  ; 
There  the  marble  pile  is  pointing 

Upward  with  its  icy  finger  ; 
There  the  willow  boughs  are  sighing, 
And  the  low-voiced  wind  replying  ; 
There  she  resteth  from  her  labors  ; 
There  she  sleeps  in  calm  and  quiet — 

Sleeps  to  wake  on  earth  no  more ! 

Never,  in  the  dreamy  twilight, — 

Never,  in  the  hush  of  morning, — 
Will  she  come  in  love  to  chide  me, 
Come  again  with  gentle  warning. 
O'er  the  bosom  faultless  moulded, 
Lie  her  still  white  hands  cross-folded  ; 
For  her  work  on  earth  is  ended, 
And  she  comes  to  me  in  sorrow — 
Me,  her  lonely  child — no  more ! 

(138) 


MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE.  139 

Bitter  is  my  daily  struggle, 

Bitter  is  my  midnight  weeping  ; 
But,  thank  God !  it  cannot  reach  her 

In  the  grave  where  she  is  sleeping  ; 
For  my  tears  would  break  her  quiet, 
Could  the  mound,  as  I  weep  by  it, 
Tell  her  all  life's  weary  aching, 
Tell  her  how  my  heart  is  breaking 

That  she  comes  to  me  no  more ! 

She  is  resting — calmly  resting 

In  that  graveyard  by  the  river  ; 
And  she  knoweth  not  my  torture, 

Nor  my  heart's  convulsive  shiver, 
When  some  friend  her  name  is  breathing, 
Carelessly  the  sword  unsheathing, 
That  sharp,  piercing  sword — Remembrance, 
Which  the  bleeding  wound  reopens — 

Wound  that  healeth  nevermore ! 

I  remember  her  devotion, 

All  her  love,  and  her  caressing  ; 
And,  thank  God !  I  too  remember 

That  her  last  word  was  a  blessing  ; 
That  she  checked  my  bitter  crying  ; 
That  she  blessed  me  even  in  dying  ; 
Gave  to  me  her  last  embraces  ; 
Kissed,  and  smiled  upon  me  fondly — 

Me,  her  poor,  heart-broken  child ! 

Oh  !  she  passed  away  so  gently 

With  the  last  white  buds  of  Summer  ! 


140  MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 

Faded  with  its  days  of  beauty  ; 

And  the  Autumn,  a  new  comer, 
With  its  leaves  doth  thickly  cover 
All  the  quiet  graveyard  over ; 
On  her  grave  they  too  are  falling, 
With  a  sound  so  sad  and  mournful 

That  it  breaks  my  heart  to  hear ! 

She  is  gone  !  and  with  her  perished 
Much  of  goodness  and  of  beauty, 

From  the  world  her  presence  brightened 
With  its  love  and  Christian  duty. 

Oh !  the  world  holds  scarce  another 

Brave  and  loving  as  that  mother ; 

But  the  holy  angels  called  her — 

Called  to  her,  a  sister  angel, 
And  she  went — to  come  no  more ! 

In  the  church  where  oft  she  worshipped, 

When  I  gravely,  sadly  listen 
To  God's  word,  my  heart  will  wander 

Where  the  marble  tombstones  glisten, 
In  that  graveyard  by  the  river, 
Where  she  sleeps  in  peace  forever  ; 
To  that  heaven,  where  her  spirit 
Dwelleth  now  with  Christ,  her  Saviour  ;- 
And  I  pray  that  I  may  meet  her, 
When  my  work  on  earth  is  ended — 
Meet  her  there,  to  part  no  more ! 


HOPE. 

ONCE,  Hope  within  a  human  heart 

Paused  for  a  while  to  linger  ; 
She  swept  those  trembling,  hidden  chords 

With  light  and  airy  finger  ; 
And  as  the  gentle  music  rose 

Like  faint,  far  sounds  from  heaven, 
Hope  smiled  a  moment  to  admire 

The  songs  herself  had  given  : 
But  Envy  o'er  that  human  heart 

Some  grains  of  distrust  scattered, 
And  harmony  forgot  to  flow — 

Its  notes  were  shattered  ! 

Hope  made  a  garden  of  that  heart, 

And  planted  sweetest  flowers  ; 
These,  watered  by  the  dews  of  Love, 

Bloomed  for  a  few  short  hours  : 
Hope  called  these  plants  by  tender  names, 

And  epithets  endearing, 
And  watched  them  into  beauty  burst, 

Undoubting  and  unfearing  : 
Alas !  for  Hope  ! — black  Envy  came, 

Her  brow  with  hatred  shaded  ; 
She  breathed  one  foul,  envenomed  breath — 

The  flowers  lay  faded ! 

Hope  gathered  up  her  withered  wreaths, 
Her  soul  with  sorrow  swelling  ; 

For  oh  !  her  foe,  Despair,  had  vowed 
To  make  that  heart  his  dwelling. 

(141) 


142  HOPE. 

With  trembling  hand  she  strove  to  wake 

A  song — her  lute  was  broken  ; 
Its  music  thus  was  early  hushed, 

Its  sweetest  songs  unspoken  : 
Hope  looked  around  with  saddened  face, 

Like  traveller  benighted, 
Then,  sighing,  left  that  human  heart, 

And  left  it  blighted! 

She  sought  a  home  in  fairer  clime, 

Where  discord  ne'er  can  reach  her  ; 
But  in  her  flight  still  proved  herself 

A  sweet  and  heavenly  teacher. 
Despair  no  more  can  break  her  lute, 

Nor  Envy  blight  her  flowers  ; 
Her  song  hath  caught  a  loftier  tone 

Amid  those  Eden  bowers  : 
Then  look — look  up  !  poor  human  heart, 

From  every  love-tie  riven  ! 
Arouse  thee  from  Despair,  and  fly 

With  Hope  to  heaven  ! 


NO  MORE. 

THOU  achest  no  more,  proud  heart ! 

No  more,  no  more  ! 

Like  tired  child  that  wept  itself  to  sleep, 
Thou  weepest  not — thou  hast  no  tears  to  weep — 

Thy  grief  is  o'er. 

And  why  no  more  ?     Hath  all  thy  pain  departed  ? 
Or  hath  thy  sorrow  left  thee  broken-hearted, 

Without  the  strength  to  weep  ? 

Sad  eyes  !  ye  weep  no  more  ! 

Your  tears  are  spent ; — 

Some  strange  new  spell  has  left  those  eyelids  dry  ; 
A  calm  Despair  has  hushed  each  burning  sigh, 

Misnamed  Content. 

With  folded  hands  the  maiden  sits  by  day, 
And  gazes,  like  one  whose  thoughts  were  far  away — 

Oh  !  wherefore  thus  ? 

Pale  lips !  ye  twitch  no  more  ! 

How  calm  ye  lie ! 

That  quiver  of  the  mouth  sent  from  the  breast, 
Plainly  betokening  the  heart's  unrest, 

No  more  flits  by. 

Ah !  ivhence  this  passive  stillness  ?  whence  that  look 
Which  seeth  not,  yet  sees — that  unread  book, 

Within  thine  eyes  ? 

(143) 


144  NO   MORE. 

Thin  hands  !  ye  move  no  more  ! 

How  cold,  how  still ! 

That  sudden,  nervous  clasping  to  the  heart, ' 
As  if  to  ease  some  bitter,  burning  smart, 

Or  hush  some  thrill, 

Is  seen  no  more  ; — like  passive,  lifeless  things, 
And  folded  like  the  dead  bird's  drooping  wings, 

Ye  lay  at  rest. 

Ye  tread  no  more,  tired  feet ! 

No  more,  no  more  ! 

With  nervous  step  as  though  to  banish  thought — 
Angry,  defiant  step,  as  though  ye  fought 

The  polished  floor. 
Say,  whence  this  change — this  deep  and  death-like 

calm? 

Say,  what  could  change  the  lion  to  the  lamb, 
And  thou  to  this  ? 

White  cheeks !  ye  flush  no  more  ! 

Ah !  nevermore  ! 

Ye  turn  no  more  from  white  to  sudden  red, 
But  with  that  marble  look  which  marks  the  dead, 

Are  covered  o'er. 

No  warm,  rich  blood  those  veins  is  coursing  through, 
No  quick,  bright  fancy  sends  its  roseate  hue  ; — 

How  white — how  still ! 

And  tell  me  why,  proud  heart ! 

Thou  achest  no  more  ; 

And  wherefore  weep  no  more,  sad  eyes  ?  And  why, 
0  pale,  pale  lips!  twitch  not  in  silent  cry. 

As  heretofore  ? 


NU    MORE.  145 

And  ye,  thin  hands !  why  move  not  as  in  pain  ? 
Tired  feet !  why  trample  not  the  floor  again  ? 

And  white,  white  cheeks ! 

Why  flush  no  more  with  sudden  light  and  shade  ? 
Oli!    whence  this  deep,  deep  calm?    What  ails  the 
maid  ? 

Is  this  Despair  ? 

Nay  : — feel  her  bosom  with  the  lightest  touch  ; 
Fate  sent  to  that  young  heart  too  much,  too  much, — 

And  Death  is  there ! 


PHANTOMS   OF  MY  SLEEP. 

PHANTOMS  !  icy  phantoms ! 
Why  do  ye  pass  me  by, 
In  the  cold  and  silent  midnight, 

When  none  else  are  nigh  ? 
Watch  them  glide  through  the  open  door, 
Watch  them  steal  o'er  the  polished  floor ! 
Phantoms,  icy  phantoms  all, 
Grim  and  cold  and  wondrous  tall. 
The  very  air  they  bring  with  them, 

Cold,  like  Death's  still  river  ; 
The  way  their  snowy  garments  float 

Makes  me  shiver — shiver ! 
One  has  come  to  my  bedside  now, 

Grim  and  tall  and  pale  and  cold  ; 
And  in  deep  sepulchral  tone, 
She  speaks  :  "  In  days  of  old, 
I  wore  a  human  form, 
And  my  heart  like  thine  was  warm  ; 
And  mine  eyes  were  bright, 
And  with  liquid  light 
They  told  sweet  tales  of  love. 
But  sorrow  came, 
And  sin  and  shame  ; 
And  my  hopes  were  gone, 
And  my  joys  had  flown, 
(146) 


PHANTOMS    OF    MY   SLEEP.  147 

And  my  heart  and  my  form  were  turned  to  stone. 
Thou  hast  seen  me  oft  in  the  palace  hall, 

And  critics  spoke  of  the  sculptor's  skill  ; 
They  called  me  a  work  of  art — yea,  art 
Hath  made  my  lips  so  cold  and  still. 
But  oh  !  my  chiselled  features  ne'er 
Were  moulded  under  the  sculptor's  care  ; 
Though  art — aye,  yes,  a  cursed  art, 
Had  hushed  my  lips,  and  broke  my  heart ! 
Once,  these  marble  fingers  toyed 

With  the  locks  of  flowing  hair  ; 
Once  thine  icy  lips  were  pressed 

To  a  brow  than  mine  less  fair  ; 
Once  this  marble  heart  of  mine, 

Warm,  impassioned,  like  thine  own, 
Gave  to  love  an  answering  throb — 

Now,  'tis  turned  to  stone  ! 

And  they  placed  me  here  where  the  sunlight  plays, 
And  artists  my  faultless  features  praise 
Nor  know  that  I,  whom  thus  they  scan, 
Am  the  work  of  God — and  not  of  man. 


Phantoms !  icy  phantoms ! 

How  hard  your  eyeballs  glare — 
Away  ! — my  heart  is  dying 

Under  your  chilling  stare. 
Ye  wear  no  look  of  mortals, — 

Oh  !  tell  me  what  ye  are, 
Grim,  and  tall,  and  wearing 

Such  gaze  of  stern  despair  ! 


148  PHANTOMS    OF    MY    SLEEP. 

The  very  air  grows  colder, 

With  those  icy  phantoms  there, 
Colder  !  colder  !  colder ! 

Oh !  hear  my  earnest  prayer, — 
Leave  me — in  pity  leave  me 

Alone  with  my  despair  ! 
One  by  one  at  my  bed  they  stand, 
And  place  on  my  heart  a  chilling  hand  ; 
And  one  by  one,  as  glad  to  stay, 
With  a  lingering  glance  they  glide  away  ; 
Each,  with  a  tale  of  woe  to  tell, — 
Each,  with  a  low-breathed,  sad  farewell. 
Some  with  a  piteous  story 
Of  ancient  faded  glory  ; 
Some  unfolding  secret  crime, 

Of  the  perished  time. 
Each  with  a  mournful  history, 
Full  of  pain  and  mystery, 

Telling  me  why 
They  were  turned  to  marble  in  days  gone  by. 

Phantoms !  icy  phantoms  ! 
Moving  over  the  ground 
Without  step  or  sound — 

What  a  chilling  pageantry  ! — 
Thank  God ! — they  are  all  passed  by. 

I  awake — I  slept  then  ! — yes  : 
The  moon  in  her  loveliness 
Is  smiling  on  broken  columns, 


PHANTOMS    OP    MY    SLEEP.  149 

In  the  grini  old  castle,  where 

I  had  stolen,  with  heavy  heart, 
To  forget  my  dull  despair 

In  the  glorious  works  of  art. 
And  the  statues  stand  where  I  saw  them  stand 
Ere  I  entered  the  portals  of  strange  Dream-land. 
Each  in  its  accustomed  place, 
Each  with  hard  and  stony  face. 
Yet,  the  winds  through  the  dim  old  corridors  rush, 

And  I  fancy  that  one,  as  I  pass  it  by, 
With  icy  finger  on  icy  lip, 

Sternty  whispers  :  "  Hush !" 
I  never  pass  them  by, 

Those  statues  grim  and  cold, 
In  the  castle  bleak  and  old, 
But  I  think  of  the  tales  they  told 
When  I  fell  asleep  on  the  cushioned  pile, 
And  the  moon  looked  down  with  her  mocking  smile, 
Mocking  me  that  I  had  prayed, 
In  the  depths  of  my  despair, 
That  God  would  give  to  me 
A  heart  as  calm  and  cold 
As  the  marble  statues  there. 
I  wonder  if  I  slept, 

If  things  are  what  they  seem  ; 
I  wonder  if  they  talked  to  me 

In  that  mysterious  dream. 
3h  !  life  hath  many  phantoms, 
The  fair,  the  false,  the  vain  ; 
And  the  world  is  cold  and  pitiless, 
And  full  of  grief  and  pain  ; 


150  PHANTOMS   OP    MY    SLEEP. 

And  the  sorrow  told  me  in  my  sleep 

Was  a  sad  familiar  strain. 
Oh !  if  their  tale  was  truth, 
Now  in  my  haunted  youth, 

Ere  heart  and  form  by  years  made  old, 
Shall  thrill  no  more  with  wild,  impassioned  throb, 
Already  worn  away  by  gasping  sob — 

Grief,  my  familiar — yea,  my  other  self, 
Will  turn  this  warm  impetuous  heart  to  stone, 
And  make  of  me — now  every  joy  has  flown — 
Like  those  strange  phantoms  of  my  restless  sleep, 
Those  things  which  suffer  not,  nor  longer  weep, 
A  marble  statue  cold ! 


DEATH    AT    SEA. 

O'ER  the  waters,  o'er  the  waters  speeds  a  vessel  light 

and  free ; 
Like  a  thing  of  life  'tis  bounding  o'er  the  dark  and 

purple  sea  ; 
And  it  seems  some  ball-room  beauty  floating  on  in 

graceful  ease, 
While  its  silken  sails  are  wafted  by  a  lightly-pinioned 

breeze. 

Fast  the  dim  shore  is  receding  from  those  anxious, 
weeping  eyes, 

Like  a  dot  appears  yon  spire,  towering  high  beneath 
the  skies  ; 

And  those  watchers — loving  watchers — lost  in  dis 
tance  and  in  shade, 

Are  discerned  alone  in  visions  drawn  by  fancy's  magic 
aid. 

Yes  :    the  last  good-bye  is  spoken  by  the  fond  lips 

held  so  dear, 
And  the  last  "  God  bless  you  "  lingers  still  in  many  a 

faithful  ear  ; 
Aye,  with  bitter  tears  of  sorrow,  many  an  anxious  eye 

is  wet, 
And  the  last  kiss  of  affection  on  the  loved  lip  lingers 

yet. 

(151) 


152  DEATH    AT   SEA. 

O'er  the  waters,  o'er  the  waters,  speeds  yon  gallant 

ship  away, 
With  an  air  of  conscious  triumph,  born  to  rule  and 

not  obey. 
Now  the  last  dim  rock  has  faded — only  foaming  waves 

arise  ; 
Onward  floats  the  gallant  vessel,  all  alone  beneath  the 

skies. 

Floating  proudly  on  the  billow,  till  the  land  is  out  of 

sight, 
Followed  in  her  far-off  voyage  by  the  fleecy  clouds  of 

white — 
Manned  by  sturdy,  gallant  sailors,  chanting  gayly  as 

they  go, 
With  only  heaven's  blue  dome  above — the  treacherous 

deep  below. 

Ah  !  how  many  a  heart's  one  treasure  goeth  with  that 

gallant  ship  ; 
Many  a  prayer  doth  hover  round  her,  breathed  by 

pale  and  ashen  lip  ; 
Many  a  brilliant,  golden  venture,  goeth  out  with  her 

to  sea  ; 
Many  an  anxious  heart  is  asking,  "  Will  they  e'er  come 

back  to  me  ?" 

But  kind  Heaven  hides  in  mercy  from  our  eyes  the 

book  of  Fate, 
Giving  to  the  sick  heart  only  these  three  words,  Hope, 

Watch,  and  Wait ; 


DEATH    AT   SEA.  153 

And  a  syren  voice  which  whispers,  taking  from  the 

soul  its  pain, 
From  thine  ashes,  Desolation,  roses  fair  shall  bloom 

again. 

Now  the  land  is  far  behind  her,  and  the  sun  has  gone 
to  sleep, 

And  the  moon  comes  out  in  splendor  to  preside  above 
the  deep  ; 

While  the  ocean  fondly  mirrors  many  a  brightly  beam 
ing  star, 

Stealing  all  the  gems  which  sparkle  in  the  night's 
triumphal  car. 

And  how  proud  the  ocean  lieth  in  her  momentary 

rest, 
Like  a  loving  mother  bearing  all  her  jewels  on  her 

breast  ; 
And  how  bright  those  star-gems  twinkle  on  the  bosom 

of  the  deep, 
Undisturbed  by  placid    zephyrs  which  above  their 

beauty  sweep. 

On  his  cabin-couch  reclining,  rests  a  youth  of  beauty 
rare, 

Golden  curls  in  rich  luxuriance  cluster  round  his  fea 
tures  fair  ; 

And  those  deep  blue  eyes,  which  borrowed  from  the 
violet  their  hue, 

Rest  beneath  their  tear-wet  lashes  like  a  flower  bathed 
in  dew. 

7* 


154  DEATH    AT    SEA. 

On  that  brow  so  high  and  lofty  lies  the  spell  of  mighty 

Thought, 
And  that  lip  of  wondrous  beauty  hath  the  fire  of 

heaven  caught ; 
Genius    bright, — God-given    genius, — nestles    in    the 

earnest  eyes, — 
On  the  forehead,  white  like  marble,  her  twin-sister 

Sorrow  lies. 

Home  is  left  far,  far  behind  him — friends  have  breathed 

the  last  farewell  ; 

* 

He   is   going,  swiftly  going,  far  in  distant  lands  to 

dwell  ; 
For  consumption  calls  him  victim — faint  and  feeble  is 

his  breath, 
And  on  his  cheek  is  blooming  "  a  rose  whose  root  is 

death." 

But  in  yon  far  land  of  beauty,  rich  in  Nature's  simple 

wealth, 
That  Circe — Hope — has  whispered,  He  will  gather 

strength  and  health 
In  that  sunny,  fair  Italia,  land  of  fruit  and  purple 

vines, 
Where  the  sun,  grown  fond  and  loving,  with  redoubled 

splendor  shines. 

And  he  goes  with  glorious  dreamings  from  his  climate 

drear  and  cold, 
Where  the  orange-boughs  are  laden  with  their  precious 

fruit  of  gold  ; 


DEATH   AT   SEA.  155 

Where  the  breeze  in  wanton  dalliance  kisses  richly- 
tinted  flowers, 

And  the  honey-bee  sips  nectar  all  the  long  bright  sum 
mer  hours : 

To  the  land  of  grape  and  myrtle — land  of  romance 

and  of  song, 
Where  the  summer  lingers  fondly,  scattering  sweets 

the  whole  year  long  ; 
Where  Nature  comes  to  mortals  in  her  fairest  robes 

arrayed, 
Where  leaves  remember  not  to  die,  and  flowers  forget 

to  fade. 

In  that  land  so  famed  in  story — loveliest  that  the 

world  e'er  knew, 
Where  the  sun  beams  ever  brightly,  and  the  skies  are 

always  blue  ; 
Where  the  strains  of  music  linger  unimprisoned,  light 

and  free, 
And  the  orange  groves  are  breathing  with  the  soul  of 

Poesy. 

\ 

Ah !    surely  health  will   come  again  beneath  those 

glorious  skies, 
Its  clear  tint  touch  his  cheek,  its  lustre  sparkle  in  his 

eyes; 
For  many  a  prayer  goes  after  him  across  the  dark 

blue  sea, 
And  one  true   heart  doth   follow   him   to   thee,  fair 

Italy ! 


156  DEATH    AT   SEA. 

For  a  dark-eyed  maiden  lingers  in  the  "  trysting-place  " 

at  eve ; 
Oh !    'tis   a  bitter    sight  to   see  so   fair   a   creature 

grieve  ; 
Her  aslnen  lip  doth  murmur  many  a  sad  and  plaintive 

lay, 
And  her  eyes  are  turned  in  watching  to  those  billows 

far  away. 

Ask  her  if  yon  gallant  vessel  seemed  a  goodly  sight 

to  view, 
As  the  purple  wave  divided,  and  as  sung  the  merry 

crew  ; 
She  will  say  that  ship  so  stately,  sailing  on  in  grace 

and  pride, 
Carried  all  her  joy  with  it  out  upon  the  treacherous 

tide. 

All  life  has  for  her  of  sunshine  goeth  with  that  vessel 
fair, 

All  its  romance  and  its  beauty,  for  her  only  treasure  's 
there  ; 

The  common  words  of  sympathy  seem  but  a  mock 
ery,— 

There  is  but  one  could  whisper  peace,  and  he — oh  ! 
where  is  he  ? 

"  Gentle  winds,  oh  !  bear  him  softly  to  that  land 
beyond  the  seas, 

And  kiss  his  wan  cheek  lightly  with  thy  softest,  sweet 
est  breeze ; 


DEATH    AT    SEA.  157 

And,  storm-king,  dread  and  mighty !  in  your  dismal 
caverns  sleep, 

For  all  that  life  holds  dear  for  me  is  on  the  treach 
erous  deep. 

"  0  Father  !   kind  and  merciful,  go  with  him  o'er  the 

wave  ; 
Should  dangers  dark   encompass  him,  oh  !    be  Thou 

near  to  save ; 
And  bring  my  loved  one  back  to  me — oh  !  bring  him 

back  again, 
It  is  the  sick  heart's  only  prayer — -just  Heaven,  shall  it 

be  vain  ?" 

There  was  another  who,  with  sad  and  anxious  throb 
bing  heart, 

Had  watched  the  stately  vessel  from  the  rock-bound 
shore  depart ; 

Another  lip  which  murmured  :  "  Ship,  thou  hast  my 
life's  one  joy !" 

It  was  the  mother's  soul  which  prayed,  "  0  God,  pro 
tect  my  boy !" 

Oh  !  there  are  cheeks  will  blanch  with  fear,  and  turn 

of  ashy  white, 
When  the  storm-cloud  gathers  o'er  the  sky  in  all  its 

power  and  might ; 
There  are  ears  will  list  in  anguish  to  the  roaring  of 

the  wave, 
And  shudder  as  they  see  for  him  they  love  a  watery 

grave. 


158  DEATH    AT   SEA. 

Then  gloomy  fear  will  conjure  up  the  dire  and  dread 
ful  scene, 

The  hissing,  roaring,  angry  waves — the  fragile  ship 
between  ; 

While  thunder  shakes  the  earth,  and  all  the  world  in 
night  seems  clothed, 

Two  watchers  madden  at  the  sight — the  mother  and 
betrothed  ! 

Oh  !  tell  me,  can  ye  glory  when  the  storm-king  rages 

wild, 
When  upon  the  face  of   heaven  murky  clouds   are 

thickly  piled, 
When  the  lightning  gleams  and  dances,  arid  the  thunder 

shakes  the  shore, 
And  the  maddened  ocean  startles  by  its  loud  and 

angry  roar  ? 

Say,  hearest  thou  no  minute-gun,  that  signal  of  dis 
tress  ? 

Seest  thou  no  loving  form  engulfed  in  angry  wave's 
caress  ? 

Oh  !  if  in  such  drear  scenes  there  can  for  thee  a  rap 
ture  be, 

Thy  lot  is  blessed,  for  oh !  thou  hast  no  wanderer  at 
sea! 

Once  more  upon  the  waters  ! — ah  !  how  joyful  is  the 

sound 
Which  flieth  on  from  lip  to  lip,  the  magic  homeward 

bound ! 


DEATH    AT   SEA.  159 

And  as  the    gallant    seamen    hum    many  an  ocean 

lay, 

Their  hearts  beat  high  with  love  and  hope  for  dear 
ones  far  away. 

But  there  was  one  upon  whose  soul  there  lay  a  chill 
despair, 

And  down  whose  wan  and  wasted  cheek  there  coursed 
a  bitter  tear  ; 

That  fading  cheek,  that  sunken  eye,  all  told  a  mourn 
ful  tale, 

And  to  his  ear  the  songs  of  joy  seemed  but  a  low 
death- wail. 

Dying  on  the  dark  blue  waters ! — dying  with  no  lip 

to  bless, 
With  no  hand  to  smooth  his  pillow,  and  no  loved  one 

to  caress  ; 
With  none  but  careless  stranger  ears  to  hear  his  latest 

speech, 
With  home  so  near,  and  yet  so  far  !  for  home  he  ne'er 

ivill  reach. 

And  he  looks  out  on  the  billows  with  a  faint  and  sick 
ening  fear, 

For  he  knows,  oh !  bitter  knowledge !  that  his  rest 
ing-place  is  here  ; 

The  waves  will  be  his  winding-sheet,  he  hears  the  hiss 
ing  surge, 

And  feels,  ere  yonder  sun  has  set,  that  they  will  sound 
his  dirge. 


160  DEATH    AT   SEA. 

Then  lie  passed  his  fingers  lightly  o'er  a  soft  and  silken 

tress, 
Which  had  nestled  on  his  bosom  with  a  slight,  yet  fond 

caress  ; 
For  that  little  curl  was  given  by  the  hand  he  loved  so 

much, 
It  had  twined  about  the  forehead  which  his  lips  so 

loved  to  touch. 

And  her  face  was  smiling  near  him,  miniatured  all 

clear  and  bright, 
And  those  eyes  were  beaming  on  him,  sparkling  like 

the  stars  of  night  ; 
Oh !  he  pressed  that  pictured  image  with  fond  fervor 

to  his  heart, 
Clasped  it  nearer,  nearer,  vowing,  '  Thou  and  I  shall 

never  part.' 

"  Bear  me  swiftly,  bounding  billow,  oh !  I  would  not 

die  at  sea, 
With  none  to  breathe  a  blessing,  and  no  eye  to  weep 

for  me  — 
Onward,  onward,  gallant  vessel !  fly  more  swiftly  o'er 

the  main, 
And  ere  my  eyes  shall  close  in  death,  oh  1  bear  me 

home  again ! 

"  I  would  sleep  beneath  the  willows,  near  my  own,  my 
boyhood's  home, 

Where  the  dark-eyed  maid  who  loves  me  can  at  even 
ing's  hour  come  ; 


DEATH    AT   SEA.  161 

I  would  have  her  touch  her  lyre  to  those  soft  and 
plaintive  lays, 

Which  we  loved  and  sung  together  in  my  earlier,  hap 
pier  days. 

"  I  would  have  her  come  at  twilight  to  my  latest  rest 
ing-place, 

While  from  out  yon  azure  heaven  I  would  look  upon 
her  face  ; 

I  would  have  her  twine  a  rose-vine  o'er  the  tomb  which 
bears  my  name, 

To  prove,  though  passed  away  from  her,  she  loved  me 
still  the  same. 

"  Oh,  no  !   I  cannot  bear  to  die  upon  this  bounding 

wave, 
To  sleep  beneath  these  billows — say,  is  there  no  arm 

can  save  ? 
0  Fate,  be  kind,  and  let  me  lie  in  some  familiar 

spot, 
Adorned  by  love  which  whispers  ever,  '  Dead,  but 

unforgot.' " 

He  was  dying,  swiftly  dying,  and  his  prayer  was  all 
in  vain, 

The  home,  the  friends  he  loved  so  well,  he  ne'er  would 
see  again  ; 

On  his  brow  was  fearful  whiteness,  at  his  heart  a  chill 
despair, 

For  death  had  set  his  signet  on  that  forehead  won 
drous  fair. 


162  DEATH    AT   SEA. 

None  marked  the  flickering  pulse  grow  still,  the  blue 

eye  fixed  in  death, 
None  caught   the   feeble  murmur  of  that  last,  that 

dying  breath  ; — 
While  the  vessel  still  was  speeding  o'er  the  waters 

deep  and  wide, 
Alone  upon  his  cabin-couch  he  sickened,  drooped,  and 

died! 

Those  stranger  hands  have  lowered  him  adown  the 

vessel's  side, 
And  over  him  —  the  cherished  one — hath  closed  the 

dark  blue  tide  ; — 
Calm  was  the  sea,  and  passengers  all  idly  paced  the 

deck, 
Nor  cowered  down  in  sudden  fear — 'twas  but  a  human 

wreck  ! 

Yes  !  all  was  still,  and  all  serene — old  Ocean  told  no 

tale, 
He  breathed  no  sigh  of  anguish  deep,  or  plaintive 

human  wail  ; 
The  sun  was  sinking  o'er  the  waters  of  the  briny 

deep, 
And  he,  the  hope  of  two  fond  hearts — he  too  had  gone 

to  sleep. 

Nevermore  on  loving  bosom  will  he  rest  that  weary 

head, 
With  its  golden  curls  'tis  pillowed  on  a  cheerless  coral 

bed— 


DEATH    AT   SEA.  163 

No  tolling  bell  shall  sound  a  dirge — his  requiem  must 
be 

The  sea-bird's  mournful  cry,  or  roar  of  angry,  sound 
ing  sea. 

Passers-by  may  see  a  watcher  lingering  on  the  rock- 
bound  shore, 

With  dark  eyes  looking  anxiously  for  him  who  comes 
no  more  ; 

Ariadne  weeping  wildly  for  a  worshipped  Theseus 
fled  — 

Which  was  the  bitterer  fate  ? — the  one  was  false — the 
other  dead. 

Oh!    that  weary,  weary  watching  for  a   joy  which 

comes  no  more  ; 
Oh !  that  sad  and  drear  existence  when  the  hope  of 

earth  is  o'er  ! — 
But  fate  was  merciful,   she    rests  within    an    early 

grave — 
She  sleeps  beneath  the  willow-tree,  and  he  beneath 

the  wave ! 


THE   LOCK   OF   HAIR. 

SHE  looked  on  the  tress  !  and  her  heart  went  back 
O'er  the  vanished  scenes  in  life's  Vildcring  track, 
When  her  heart  was  as  gay  and  as  free  from  care, 
As  the  light-winged  bird  that  skims  the  air  ; 
And  she  saw  the  porch,  with  its  clinging  vine 
Which  her  fingers  had  taught  in  grace  to  twine  ; 
And  her  tears  fell  fast,  for  the  humble  door 
Of  her  childhood's  home  might  be  seen  no  more. 
She  looked  on  the  tress  ! — and  her  memory  flew 
To  the  joys  her  guileless  girlhood  knew  ; 
When  a  mother's  smile  was  the  blessing  sought, 
And  the  praises  of  earth  claimed  not  a  thought : 
When  a  chaplet  of  roses  encircled  her  brow — 
The  wreath  of  fame  drooped  over  it  now  ! 
But  oh  !  she  would  gladly  have  given  it  up, 
For  the  pleasures  that  sparkled  in  childhood's  cup. 

It  was  a  tress  of  her  mother's  hair  ! 
And  she  saw  once  more  the  old  arm-chair, 
Which  had  sat  in  the  corner  from  day  to  day, 
Till  the  locks  once  raven  were  turning  grey  : 
Still  there  in  summer  and  wintry  weather, 
While  the  mother  and  chair  grew  old  together — 
And  the  daughter  wept  o'er  the  lock  of  hair, 
For  the  mother  who  died  in  the  old  arm-chair. 

'Twas  a  silken  tress,  half  brown,  half  grey — 
And  her  heart  went  back  to  that  weary  day, 
(164) 


THE    LOCK    OP    HAIR.  165 

When  she  clipped  the  lock  from  that  forehead  fair — 
Now  in  the  grave  'twas  mouldering  there  ; — 
When  the  voice  was  still  she  loved  so  much, 
And  the  lips  she  kissed  grew  cold  to  her  touch  ; 
When  the  hands  which  her  own  had  fondly  pressed, 
Were  folded  over  a  pulseless  breast. 

And  her  soul  grew  dark,  and  her  tears  fell  fast. 

As  she  wept  o'er  the  corpse  of  the  untombed  past ; 

Alas !  no  kind  hand  smoothed  her  brow, 

And  she  heard  no  mother's  blessing  now  : 

No  cheering  word, — no  gentle  tone — 

She  must  tread  life's  weary  paths  alone, 

And  yet  in  the  drama  act  a  part, 

With  the  leaden  weight  of  a  broken  heart. 

And  she  had  found  that  the  world  was  cold, 
And  knew  no  wealth  but  the  wealth  of  gold  ; 
And  she  had  found  that  the  lip  could  smile. 
While  the  heart  was  filled  with  deceit  the  while. 
The  Judas  kiss,  and  the  broken  vow, 
Alas  !  she  knew  their  meaning  now  ! 
But  oft  in  anguish  her  heart  had  burned, 
Ere  she  those  bitter  lessons  learned. 

And  she  had  wooed  proud  Fame — for  what  ? 
For  the  smiles  of  one  who  loved  her  not. 
The  laurel-wreath  drooped  over  her  brow, 
Its  thorns  were  in  her  heart  e'en  now. 
The  world  had  ranked  her  genius  high, 
But  the  woman's  heart  was  left  to  die  : — 
Oh  !  she  felt  as  she  gazed  on  that  silken  tress, 
That  Fame  may  be  won — and  emptiness  ! 


FADING    SUMMER. 

SUMMER  fadeth  from  the  hill-tops, 

Summer  fadeth  from  the  skies  ; 
And  we  know  she  soon  will  leave  us, 

From  her  low  and  sad  replies  ; 
From  the  way  in  which  she  scatters 

Roses  late  that  decked  her  brow  ; 
From  the  way  in  which  her  farewell 

Through  the  woods  goes  sighing  now. 

Oh  !  this  glorious  Indian  Summer, 

Meet  for  Poet's  idle  dreams  ! 
Oh  1  those  days  of  quiet  beauty, 

With  their  soft  and  hazy  gleams ! 
In  my  soul  there  is  a  wailing, 

Like  the  winds  upon  the  shore  : 
Go  not  hence,  sweet,  dreamy  Summer, 

Linger  with  me  evermore ! 

Oh !  the  breeze  which  fans  my  forehead, 

Soft  and  sweet,  like  lover's  kiss  ! 
Oh !  the  sunset  clouds  !  their  grandeur 

Fills  my  soul  with  rapturous  bliss  ! 
Then  the  dreamy,  mystic  twilight, 

Hour  for  memory  and  for  tears, 
Drops  its  mantle  o'er  my  spirit, 

And  awakes  departed  years. 

(166) 


FADING    SUMMER.  167 

What  a  strange,  sweet  sense  of  quiet 

Steals  upon  my  restless  heart, 
As  I  watch  the  forms  in  cloudland, 

Till  I  seem  of  them  a  part ! 
Just  as  calm,  and  as  contented, 

As  those  great  white  ships  which  glide 
O'er  the  blue  sky's  peaceful  bosom, 

Sailing  on  in  lonely  pride. 

Not  one  hope,  and  not  one  sorrow, 

Wakes  a  tumult  in  my  breast ; — 
What  a  tempest  once  this  heart  was  ! 

Now  'tis  strangely  lulled  to  rest : 
Silence  broodeth  in  its  chambers, 

And  a  calm,  unbroken,  deep  ; 
For  my  stormy,  wild  emotions 

All  have  raved  themselves  to  sleep. 

From  my  window  idly  gazing, 

Look  I  on  the  quiet  sky  ; 
Catch  the  perfume  of  the  flowers, 

As  the  night  wind  wafts  it  by, 
Never  dreaming  of  the  future, 

Never  dreaming  of  the  past ; — 
Oh  !  this  calm  for  which  I  panted, — 

It  has  come  to  me  at  last ! 

For  the  wild,  tempestuous  conflict, 

Where  I  bravely  bore  my  part, 
Weep  I  not — I  read  my  triumph 

In  Hue.  scars  upon  my  heart ! 


168  FADING   SUMMER. 

Little  think  we  of  the  labor 
When  the  task  at  length  is  done  ; 

Little  care  we  for  the  struggle 

"  When  the  battle's  lost — and  won  !  " 

What  to  me  those  weary  heart-aches  ? 

What  to  me  those  hours  of  pain  ? 
Since  their  corpses  all  are  buried, 

Since  they  haunt  me  not  again  : 
What  to  me  those  bitter  longings  ? 

Oh  !  thank  God,  they  all  are  past ! 
What  to  me  those  dead  repinings  ? 

I  have  won  Content  at  last. 

Oh !  my  foes — Suspense,  Rebellion — 

Lashed  my  heart  like  angry  waves  ; 
But,  thank  God,  they  are  asleep  now, 

All  asleep  in  dusty  graves  ! 
With  my  sweet  new  trust  in  Heaven 

I  can  brave  misfortune's  frown  ; 
Toilsome  was  the  march,  and  weary, — 

Great  the  cross,  but  great  the  crown  I 

Fading  Summer,  oh !  I  weep  not, 

Though  I  buried  with  your  flowers 
Many  a  false,  sweet  hope  that  thrilled  mo, 

Many  a  dream  of  future  hours. 
Fading  Summer,  oh !  I  weep  not, 

Though  I  saw  my  mother  die, 
When  your  voice  was  on  the  hill-tops, 

And  your  beauty  in  the  sky. 


FADING    BUMMER.  109 

Nay,  I  weep  not  as  I  wept  then, 

When  they  laid  her  'neath  the  sod  ; 
Rave  no  more  in  wild  rebellion, 

/  have  learned  to  trust  in  God  ; 
Learned  to  bless  Him  that  He  called  her 

From  the  fading  things  of  time, 
Where  her  voice  with  white-robed  angels' 

Joins  to  form  a  glorious  chime. 

Fading  Summer,  oh  !  1  weep  not, 

Though  with  every  leaf  that  died 
Died  some  joy  that  I  had  nourished 

With  a  secret  love  and  pride  : 
Though  with  thy  sweet  woodland  songbirds 

Many  a  bright  dream  didst  depart, 
Perished  with  thy  choicest  blossoms, 

Sweeter  blossoms  in  my  heart ! 

I  remember — I  remember 

All  that  thou  didst  bring  to  me  ; 
And,  alas !  I  too  remember 

All  that  thou  must  take  with  thee  ; 
All  that  I  have  thought  or  uttered 

On  the  path  but  lately  trod, 
On  thy  wings  thou  now  art  bearing 

Up  with  thee — from  me — to  God. 

How  improved,  or  how  I've  wasted 

All  those  golden  hours  now  fled  ; 
Whether  bore  with  Christian  patience 

Storms  which  swept  above  my  head  ; 

8 


170  FADING    .SUMMER. 

Whether  drank  with  Christian  meekness 
Every  cup  that  thou  didst  till ; 

Whether  turned  aside  rebellious, 
Or  knelt  humbly  to  His  will  ; 

Whether  husbanded  my  hours 

With  an  eye  to  Him  alone, 
And  performed,  while  time  was  fleeting, 

All  the  good  I  might  have  done  ; 
Whether  welcomed  my  afflictions. 

As  His  blessings  in  disguise  ; 
Whether  mocked  the  God  that  loveth, 

With  my  wild,  rebellious  cries  ; 

Whether  lost  in  idle  dreaming 

Opportunities  for  good ; 
Whether  angel  tones  might  whisper, 

"  Oh  !  she  hath  done  all  she  could  :  " 
Ah  !  I  fear  me  dark  the  record, 

Summer,  floating  from  earth's  sod. 
On  thy  wings  thou  now  art  bearing 

Up  with  tliee — from  me — to  God. 

Yes,  I  weep — I  weep,  sweet  Summer — 

Summer,  dying  from  my  gaze  ; 
Not  for  hopes  that  late  have  perished. 

Faded  joys — but  wasted  days : 
But  I  thank  the  God  who  gave  thee, 

That  my  grief  at  last  is  spent  ; 
That  I  bear  whatever  He  sends  me, 

And  am  with  inv  fate  content. 


FADING    SUMMER.  171 

Summer,  dying  on  the  hill-tops  i 

Summer,  dying  in  the  skies  ! 
Thou  art  fading  like  a  spirit 

From  before  my  dreamy  eyes. 
By  the  cooling  breeze  which  greets  me, 

By  the  pale  leaves  on  the  ground, 
Soon  I  know  I'll  seek  thee  vainly, 

Seek — but  thou  shalt  not  be  found  ! 

I  shall  trace  thee  in  the  meadow 

By  some  leaflet  dropped  behind, 
Leaf  which  clustered  in  the  garland 

That  around  thy  brow  was  twined  : 
By  the  dead  leaves  on  the  wayside, 

Scattered  by  thy  dimpled  hands, 
I  shall  know  my  queen — my  darling — 

Reigneth  now  in  fairer  lands. 

By  some  lonely,  voiceless  fountain, 

Which  in  grief  for  thee  has  hushed 
All  those  sweet  and  thrilling  poems 

That  but  late  in  music  gushed  ; 
By  some  lately  laughing  streamlet, 

On  whose  mouth  a  seal  is  set, 
I  shall  know  that  thou  art  faded, 

But  art  loved  and  cherished  yet. 

By  the  lonely  mountain  echoes, 

Which  shall  wail,  dead  maid,  for  thee  ; 

By  the  sad-voiced  wind  that  sigheth 
O'er  the  leafless,  blighted  tree  ; 


172  FADING   SUMMER. 

By  the  sun's  sad  gaze  at  morning  ; 

By  the  moon's,  so  faint  and  pale  ; 
I  shall  know  that  o'er  thy  dying, 

Earth  and  heaven  alike  bewail. 

By  those  stilly  creeping  shadows, 

In  the  woods  late  filled  with  song  ; 
By  the  day's  strange,  fitful  glimmer  ; 

By  the  nights  so  drear  and  long  ; 
I  will  know  your  reign  is  over, 

While  my  heart  in  grief  shall  burn  ; 
And  like  maiden  for  her  LOVER, 

/  will  pine  for  your  return  ! 


"LOVED    AND    LOST." 

'Tis  midnight  now — I  cannot  sleep, 

For  busy  thoughts  o'er  heart  and  soul 
Sweep  rapidly  with  torturing  pang, 

And  power  resistless  of  control. 
And  I, — while  others  sink  in  dreams 

All  soft  and  sweet,  from  trouble  free — 
My  memory  driving  slumber  far, — 

Am  wandering  to  the  past  and  thee. 

I  cannot,  if  I  would,  forget 

That  early  dream  which  brightly  shed 
Such  rapture  o'er  my  trusting  heart, 

But  left  it  withered,  cold,  and  dead  ! 
It  haunts  me  in  the  festive  throng, 

When  giddy  idlers  round  me  are  ; 
It  cometh  with  the  morning's  light, 

And  with  the  first  pale  evening  star. 

I  try  in  vain  to  cheat  my  soul 

With  those  stern  words,  "  I  must  forget ;" 
But  then  some  plaintive  song  recalls 

The  happy  hour  when  first  we  met : 
No  wonder  that  my  face  betrays 

Such  wild  emotions,  when  the  strain 
Of  sweet,  sad  music  greets  my  ear, 

For  music  brings  thee  back  again. 

(173) 


174  "LOVED  AND  LOST." 

Then  I  recall  the  maddening  hour 

When  at  my  hated  rival's  side, 
With  falling  veil,  and  orange  wreath, 

I  saw  thee  stand,  another's  bride  ! 
/sought  thee  too  with  cheerful  words, 

And  taught  my  lip  a  careless  tone  ; 
And  then  I  touched  thy  trembling  hand — 

Alas  !  'twas  colder  than  my  own. 

'Tis  vain  to  love,  for  sacred  vows 

Have  bound  thee  to  another  now  ; 
And  yet  within  thy  downcast  eye, 

And  on  thy  fair  but  troubled  brow, 
I  read  the  bitter  secret  there, 

Thy  heart  would  sooner  break  than  own, 
That  he  who  bore  thee  from  my  side 

Can  claim  thy  hand,  and  (hat  alone. 

'Twas  gold — ah !  yes,  'twas  cursed  gold 

That  broke  the  vow  our  lips  had  pealed, 
The  vow  of  mutual,  honest  love, 

Which  tell-tale  eyes  before  revealed. 
With  iron  will  they  parted  us 

By  weary  miles,  and  rivers  wide  ; 
And  after  dreary  years  had  fled, 

I  saw  thee  stand  a  victim  bride. 

And  /  have  smiled  on  others  too, 

As  'mid  the  crowd  I  chanced  to  rove ; 

But  never  could  my  heart  forget 
Its  first — its  last — it?  onlv  love. 


•'  LOVED    AND    LOST."  175 

Remembrance  would  not  be  crushed  out  ;— 
"  How  could  I  see  a  sweet  mouth  shine  " 

With  radiant,  beaming  smiles  of  love 
And  joy,  "  and  not  remember  thine  ?  " 

We  meet  as  strangers — calmly,  cold, 

With  careless  words  our  lips  we  wreathe ; 
But  sudden  starts  too  plainly  tell 

What  it  were  madness  now  to  breathe  ; 
Yet  when  thy  hand  refuses  mine, 

Which  once  it  might  all  fondly  press, 
Thy  paling  cheek,  thy  quivering  lip, 

The  tortures  of  the  heart  confess. 

'Tis  midnight  now  ;  and,  sleepless  still, 

I  count  time's  heart-throbs  one  by  one, 
And  dream  thy  soft  lips  touch  mine  own, — 

But  these  are  fancies  I  must  shun  ; — 
Not  only  vain,  but  sinful  too, 

For  we  are  parted  far  and  wide, — 
I  am  a  lonely  wanderer  now, 

And  thou — thou  art  another's  bride  ! 


"GOD    BLESS   YOU!" 

THERE  are  some  words  with  haunting  spell, 

-That  linger  fondly  round  the  heart  ; 
And  wheresoe'er  on  earth  we  dwell, 

Can  ne'er  from  memory  depart. 
Their  music  sweet  comes  o'er  the  soul, 

As  soft  as  evening's  gentle  sigh  ; 
Such  were  thy  last  fond  words  to  me  : 

"  God  bless  you  always— love,  good-bye." 

I  hear  them  when  the  morning  flower 

First  wakens  to  the  day-god's  light ; 
They  haunt  my  soul  at  twilight  hour, 

I  hoar  them  in  the  hush  of  night ; 
And  when  the  gay  and  proud  I  meet, 

And  when  the  cup  of  mirth  fills  high  ; 
A  voice  doth  whisper  low  and  sweet, 

"  God  bless  you  always — love,  good-bye." 

Then  sweeps  a  pang  through  brain  and  heart, 

Then  fades  away  the  giddy  throng  ; 
Then  from  my  cheek  the  smiles  depart, 

And  on  my  lip  dies  out  the  song. 
Oh  !  then  my  soul  grows  dark  and  drear, 

Though  friends,  the  loved,  the  true,  are  nigh, 
I  see  them  not,  I  only  hear, 

"  God  bless  yon  always — love,  good-bye." 


"GOD   BLESS   YOU."  177 

Ah  I  there  are  many  words  which  bring 

A  thousand  memories  to  my  heart 
As  soft  as  angels'  whispering — 

Words  breathed  when  fate  bade  loved  ones  part. 
They  come  to  me  on  evening  breeze, 

I  hear  them  in  the  wind's  low  sigh — 
Yet  none  so  sweet  and  sad  as  these : 

"  God  bless  you  always — love,  good-bye." 


ALONE. 

SLOWLY  sinks  the  setting  sun  ; 
Evening  jewels  one  by  one 
Shine  upon  the  brow  of  night ; 
Soft  the  moonbeams'  gentle  light. 
Birds  on  these  bright  summer  eves, 
Sweetly  chant  among  the  leaves  ; 
One  is  singing  now  to  me — 
Would  that  he  might  sing  to  thee. 

Flowers,  beautiful  and  fair, 
Scent  with  perfumes  sweet  the  air  ; 
Shadows  gather  in  the  West, 
Nature  softly  sinks  to  rest. 
All  is  gloriously  bright, 
Yet  I  must  be  sad  to-night ; 
For  the  bird  in  yonder  tree 
Whispers  to  my  heart  of  thee. 

Soft  and  sweet  the  summer  winds 
Murmur  in  the  swaying  vines, 
And  the  voices  of  the  night 
Fill  me  with  a  pure  delight  ; 
But  a  shadow  clouds  my  brow, 
And  my  heart  cries,  "  Where  art  thou  ?" 
Joys  are  not  true  joys  to  me, 
Unless  they  be  shared  with  thee. 
(178; 


ALONE.  179 

Brightly  beams  yon  evening  star, 
But  I  feel  thou  art  afar  ; 
And  thine  eyes  so  clear  and  bright 
Speak  not  to  mine  own  to-night : — 
Long  and  weary  miles  divide — 
Love,  each  one  hath  multiplied. — 
Oh  !  if  wings  were  given  to  me, 
Quickly  would  I  be  with  thee. 

Art  thou  sad  ?    Then  would  I  chase 

Every  shadow  from  thy  face. 

Art  thou  joyful  ?    Then  would  I 

Strive  each  joy  to  multiply. 

But  this  may  not  be — apart 

Now  must  throb  each  aching  heart. 

Swiftly  may  the  hours  flee, 

Till  they  bring  thee  back  to  me ! 


"LOVE    N  OT." 

"  LOVE  NOT  !" 

It  was  a  maiden's  youthful  voice  that  sung, 
In  strains  of  witching  beauty,  this  sad  song. 
The  wild  notes  floated  on  the  midnight  air, 
And  lingered  near  me  borne  on  airy  breeze. 
The  night  was  beautiful — a  radiant  moon 
Cast  her  soft  lustre  o'er  the  sleeping  world  : 
The  night-bird  chanted  to  his  tender  mate, — 
The  rose  bowed  down  beneath  the  dew-drop's  kiss. 
All  earth  was  bathed  in  beauty,  and  my  soul 
Was  filled  with  dreams  of  love.     I  thought  of  one 
Whose  earnest  eyes,  although  but  seldom  seen, 
Had  met  mine  own  too  often  /  and  whose  words, 
Though  chance  and  usual,  had  been  treasured  up 
As  jewels  of  the  heart.     The  gentle  moonlight 
Lends  a  charm  to  all — its  soothing  rays 
Had  softened  down  the  prejudice  of  old 
That  bade  me  trust  in  none.     At  that  still  hour, 
With  soul  attuned  to  love — pulse  beating  wild, 
1  heard  that  voice,  and  caught  the  sad  refrain, 
"  Love  not." 

It  seemed  to  me  a  warning  sent 
From  yonder  heaven — and  I  closed  my  eyes, 
While  dire  forebodings  shot  across  my  brain, 
And  some  foul  demon  from  another  world 
Seemed  tugging  at  my  heart-strings.     Night 
Was  closing  round  me  like  a  phantom's  wing, 


"LOVE   NOT."  181 

1  The  dark  was  over  all."    Perchance  I  slept 

And  dreamed  ;  or — dare  I  say  it  ? — on  that  eve 

Spirits  of  angels  came  and  talked  to  me. 

I  saw  before  me  one — a  gentle  girl, 

Whom  I  had  loved  in  childhood's  brighter  hours. 

Well  I  remembered  how  her  joyous  laugh 

Had  rung  in  music  on  the  evening  breeze. 

But  oh  !  how  changed  !    The  lovely  wedding  robe 

Was  shroud-like  now  ;  the  graceful  bridal  veil 

Fell  o'er  a  brow  as  white.     The  roses  fair 

That  bloomed  upon  the  forehead  of  the  bride 

Left  naught  but  thorns.     The  slender  diamond  ring, 

Transformed  in  likeness  to  a  serpent's  form, 

Coiled  round  the  fingers  small,  and  seemed  to  turn 

And  sting  her.     The  meek,  gentle  eyes 

Were  dim, — and  thus  she  spoke  : 

"  Love  not !  love  not ! — 
By  all  the  memory  of  our  earlier  years, 
I  charge  thee  write  these  words  upon  thy  soul. 
A  fatal  legacy  is  woman's  heart ; 
A  thing  to  keep  confined,  imprisoned,  chained, 
Oli !  fatal  hour  when  first  1  loosed  the  chain  ! — 
'Twas  on  a  moonlight  night— a  harvest  moon, — 
Each  little  star  sat  on  his  golden  throne, 
The  air  was  sweet  with  fragrance,  and  the  flowers 
Were  wet  with  heavenly  dews. — /  learned  to  love  ! 
'  Suppose  that  you  were  sitting  in  the  dark, 
With  foul  things  all  around  you — you  yourself 
Like  them,  all  poor,  and  blind,  and  miserable  ;' 
If  then  from  yon  bright  heaven  there  came  an  angel 
Of  life  and  light,  all  radiant  near  you  side, 


182  "LOVE  NOT." 

Gazing  with  pity  on  your  meaner  self, 

Showing  how  black  was  that  which  once  seemed  bright, 

Until  your  soul  with  one  great,  longing  cry, 

Felt  that  to  be  a  slave  were  happiness, 

So  one  might  move  near  this  bright,  glorious  being, 

And  breathe  the  air  his  presence  made  so  pure. 

Such  was  my  fate — I  saw — I  looked — I  loved  ! 

I  stood  at  yonder  altar,  and  my  hand 

Was  placed  in  his  ; — my  heart  went  with  my  vow, 

But  his — alas  !  stern  knowledge  learned  too  late — 

Was  with  another.     Day  by  day  I  marked 

His  chilling  brow — his  cold,  averted  eye  ; 

And  his  '  poor,  common  words  of  courtesy/— 

How  vain  they  seemed  to  my  sick,  pining  heart ! 

There  was  but  one  relief — the  yawning  grave  ; — 

I  welcomed  it — I  courted  its  cool  shade  ; 

And  as  I  felt  the  cords  of  life  untwine, 

And  knew  that  soon  the  curtain  of  the  tomb 

Would  hide  my  hated  face  from  him  I  loved, 

I  sank  in  prayer  of  gratitude  to  God. 

Death  won  me  to  his  stillness,  and  I  slept 

In  peace  at  last. — Oh  !  hear  my  parting  words  1 

By  all  the  dreams  which  make  life  beautiful, 

By  all  the  hopes  of  happiness  on  earth, 

Bow  not  thy  soul  to  anything  of  clay, 

Cast  not  its  hidden  pearls  unheeded  forth, 

Throw  not  its  flowers  beneath  the  trampling  foot 

Of  man,  who  wins  it  but  to  scorn. — Love  not — 

Love  not — love  not !" 

She  passed  away  like  mist. 
The  white  robe  faded  in  the  distance  dim, 


"LOVE  NOT."  183 

The  death-white  face  went  from  my  gaze  forever. 
The  moon  grew  paler  ;  and  the  stare  above 
Seemed  sad-eyed  watchers  ;  and  a  death-like  wail 
Came  moaning  wildly  on  the  midnight  air. 
It  passed  ! — I  heard  the  rustle  of  a  wing, 
And  turned  in  fear  to  gaze  upon  a  face 
That  almost  touched  my  own.     A  maiden's  face  ; 
Yet  white,  sepulchral — fearful  to  behold. 
She,  too,  was  one  I  loved — a  child  of  passion 
And  of  power,  reared  'neath  a  sunny  clime, —    . 
A  daughter  of  the  South,  with  heart  as  warm 
As  native  sunshine — face  as  pure  and  fair 
As  her  own  native  flowers.     Her  midnight  eyes, 
That  beamed  in  beauty  once,  shaming  the  stars 
For  brightness  with  their  glow,  now  glared 
With  all  the  light  of  madness. 

"  Love  not  I" 

Oh  !  strange  fatality  ! — these  were  her  words — 
"  Love  not ;  or,  maiden,  if  thou  lovest,  be 
The  wretch  /  am.     I  heeded  not  the  song 
Which  ba.de  me  keep  my  heart ;  but  cast  it  forth, 
A  gift  uncared  frfr — valueless.     I  loved — 
Love  is  too  cold  a  word — 'twas  adoration 
Wild,  daring,  hopeless  !  as  the  lowly  flower's 
Which,  looking  upward  to  the  sun,  was  dazzled, 
Until  the  god  of  day  glanced  down  in  pity 
Upon  the  flower  his  rays  had  given  life, 
Saw — loved — and  lifted  it  unto  his  bosom  : 
And  the  poor  flower  would  then  have  been  content, 
Even  tho'  his  brightness  had  but  scorched  and  withered 
Its  leaves  to  death — a  blessed  and  glorious  death, 


184  "  LOVE   NOT." 

So  it  had  lived  one  blissful  moment  there  ! 

I  was  one  cursed  with  the  fatal  dower  of  genius  ; 

In  visions  of  the  beautiful  my  soul 

Was  bathed.     I  loved  at  eve  to  gaze  upon 

The  setting  sun,  and  mark  his  fading  splendor  ; 

My  spirit  revelled  with  a  strange  delight 

In  midnight  storm.     The  armies  of  the  air, 

When  met  in  battle  with  the  thunder's  roar, 

Made  for  my  ear  grand  music.     Oft  I  gazed 

On  scenes  like  these,  and  felt  my  spirit  rise 

Far,  far  above  the  fading  things  of  earth, 

To  dwell  with  angels.     Then  my  wayward  harp 

I  wildly  touched,  and  touching,  bade  it  sing 

The  songs  that  heaven  had  taught  it.     Fame  was  mine  ; 

The  laurel  bloomed  upon  my  maiden  brow — 

Its  touch  was  poison — and  a  world's  applause 

Rang  in  my  ears.     But  oh  !  my  woman's  heart 

Kept  pining  for  a  soft  and  gentle  voice. 

Fame  could  not  bring  me  happiness — my  soul 

Wept  wildly  for  its  mate.     It  came  at  last — 

Oh  !  fatal  love — at  last  it  touched  my  lyre  ; 

And,  casting  all  the  laurels  from  my  brow, 

I  knelt — ah  !  yes,  like  heathen  devotee, 

Before  a  god  my  own  weak  brain  had  wrought. 

He  wooed  me — not  with  words, — I  sought  them  not — 

With  tender,  love-lit  glances — eyes  that  seemed 

To  say,  '  I  love  thee  ;' — I,  blind  dupe  !  believed, 

Nor  knew  that  I,  one  of  the  crowned  of  earth, 

Was  made  to  be  "  b&weddown  to — honored,  worshipped" — 

Ah  !  anything,  yes  !  "  anything  but  loved ."- 

I  dreamed  a  while  in  happiness  and  bliss, 


"  LOVE    NOT."  1  85 

To  wake  to  anguish,  madness,  and  despair  ! 

"  My  friend .'" — yes,  that  was  att.    Sick,  fainting  heart ! 

That  gave  thine  own  deep,  wild  devotion  forth, 

And  for  the  wealth  that  thou  hadst  wasted  thus, 

Received  his  friendship  ! — No  ;  I  cursed  him  not, 

Though  heart  and  brain  were  wild,  and  reason  fled. 

I  turned  in  scorn  ;  and  with  a  woman's  pride 

Said,  "  Go  !  thou  art  forgotten  !"    'Twas  not  so— 

The  restless  midnight  found  me  weeping  still 

Over  a  fallen  idol — and  the  cold  blue  eyes 

Haunted  me  ever  ;  I  could  not  forget  ! 

Once  more  I  glittered  'mid  the  mirthful  throng, 

And  bade  my  laurels  bloom  for  me  again  ; 

All  deemed  me  happy — but  the  heart  within 

Was  dark  as  rayless  night.     And  yet  I  smile 

With  laughing,  happy  ones,  and  sneer 

With  those,  the  heartless,  too  ; — but  my  young  life 

Knows  no  arising  light ;  the  star  that  once 

Made  all  things  beautiful,  has  set  in  gloom. 

But  I  would  save  thee  from  a  doom  like  mine  ; 

Would  warn  thee  in  thy  youth,  while  hope  is  thine, 

And  earth  seems  bright,  and  flowers  bloom  for  thee — 

If  thou  wouldst  'scape  from  woman's  usual  lot, — 

To  love  in  vain  some  idol  false  as  fair — 

Love  not !" 

She  faded  slowly  from  my  gaze, 
Leaving  behind  her  darkness — darkness  all ; — 
I  started  as  from  sleep  ;  and  even  then 
I  heard  a  footfall,  low,  familiar,  dear, 
Not  often  heard,  and  yet  perchance  too  oft. 
A  voice  of  sweetest  music  reached  my  heart, 


186  •'  LOVE    NOT." 

A  pair  of  earnest  eyes  looked  in  my  own, 
But  lately  met  on  earth — yet  seen  in  dreams, 
Even  from  my  happy  childhood's  earliest  hour. 
The  spell  was  o'er  me — deep  within  my  heart 
A  stranger  face  was  imaged  ;  and  I  felt 
The  warning  came  too  lafe  !     Too  late  I  learned 
That  love  brings  with  it  only  grief  and  tears. 
My  lot  was  on  me  ;  and  I  could  not  break 
Love's  close-wrought  fetters.     Ah  !  'tis  vain  to  sing 
To  one  whose  heart  has  gone  already  forth 
Unasked,  unsought,  to  meet  that  other  heart, 
The  song  which  wisdom  teaches  to  the  old — 
"  Love  not — love  not !" 


THE   CITY  OF  THE  DEAD. 

THERE  is  a  beautiful  city. 

Laid  out  in  walk  and  square, 
Where  flowers  in  rich  profusion 

Perfume  the  summer  air. 
'Tis  there  the  willow  waveth, 

And  the  violet  lifts  its  head  ; 
And  they  call  this  lovely  city, 

The  city  of  the  dead. 

The  breeze  in  gentle  dalliance 

From  flower  to  flower  roves  ; 
And  the  very  air  seems  purer 

In  those  quiet,  shaded  groves. 
No  sound  disturbs  the  stillness, — 

No  laughter  rude  and  loud  ; 
For  there's  something  in  that  city, 

Awes  e'en  the  gayest  crowd. 

And,  side  by  side  there  slumber 

The  rich  man  and  the  poor  ; 
There  foes  lie  down  together, 

Nor  wrong  each  other  more. 
There  sleep  the  great,  the  lowly  ; 

The  same  trees  o'er  them  wave  ; 
For  earth's  proud  and  vain  distinctions 

Are  levelled  by  the  grave. 

Here  some  weary,  aged  warrior 

Quietly  takes  his  rest ; 

(187) 


188  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DEAD. 

And  near  him  some  pale  young  mother, 
With  her  baby  on  her  breast. 

There  the  wealthy  merchant  slumbers, 
And  dreams  no  more  of  gain  ; 

There  the  widowed  one  forgetteth 
Life's  weariness  and  pain. 

There  sleep  in  peace  together 

Betrayer  and  betrayed  ; 
The  wron;.' ed  Jies  down  by  the  wronger, 

And  feels  no  more  afraid  ; 
And,  afar  in  some  lone  corner 

Slumbers  the  suicide, — 
No  marble  tablet  telling 

How  he  lived,  and  how  he  died  ! 

The  bride,  in  her  fair  young  beauty, 

With  orange  buds  in  her  hair, 
And  the  wedding  robe  around  her, 

Sleeps  calm  and  peaceful  there. 
There  the  orator  proud  reposes, 

A  stone  at  head  and  feet ; 
A  nameless  one  lies  near  him 

Whose  rest  is  just  as  sweet ! 

Artist,  statesman,  and  poet, — 

Wooers  alike  of  fame  ! 
Your  haunting  dreams  have  vanished, 

And  a  white  slab  bears  your  name. 
Ah  !  who  has  not  bowed  with  weeping 

Over  some  coffined  head  ? 
For  we  all  have  loved  and  lost  ones 

In  the  city  of  the  dead  ! 


FAME,  PLEASURE,  AND  RELIGION. 

A  YOUTH  of  noble  mien,  and  features  fair, 
With  dear,  dark  eyes,  that  spoke  a  fearless  soul, 
And  clustering  tresses  twining  carelessly 
Around  a  brow  where  rested  mighty  thought  ; 
A  face  whose  every  lineament  expressed 
A  heart  to  dare  and  do — in  solitude 
Stood  7neath  the  holy  stars.     F*ull  long  he  mused 
Of  earth  and  all  its  mysteries, — of  those  pure  stars 
Which  nightly  ride  the  heavens — the  fair-faced  moon, 
Pacing  in  lonely  pride  her  palace  home, 
Like  some  bright  queen  of  beauty.     Suddenly, 
Loud  martial  music  burst  upon  his  ear, 
And  to  his  side  there  came,  with  step  erect, 
And  midnight  eyes  that  flashed  like  brilliant  gems, 
A  woman — tall,  commanding,  beautiful. 
Thus  haughtily  she  spoke  : 
"  I  smiled  o'er  thy  birth 

In  my  bright  home  afar, 
For  I  marked  in  thy  rising 

The  dawn  of  a  star. 
I  singled  thee  out 

In  thine  infancy's  hour, 
For  I  knew  that  thy  heart 

Throbbed  with  genius  and  power  : — 
But  few  have  resisted 

The  spell  of  my  song  ; 
Its  wild,  gushing  music 
Wilt  lure  thee  along. 

(189) 


190  FAME,    PLEASURE,    AND    RELIGION. 

Thou  wilt  come  with  the  rest — thou  wilt  bow  at  my  feet, 
And  I'll  place  on  thy  forehead  a  wreath  for  it  meet. 
Like  some  pure  planet  star 

That  presides  o'er  the  night, 
Shall  be  thy  career — 

As  unfading,  as  bright  ; — 
The  proud  and  the  mighty 

Shall  kneel  to  thy  worth  ; 
And  thy  name  shall  be  placed 

'Mid  the  great  ones  of  earth  ; 
Long,  long  shalt  thou  reign- 
Nay  !  turn  not  away — • 
Fame  offers  her  chaplet 

Of  laurel  and  bay  : 

Thy  wish  shall  be  thine,  howe'er  lofty  and  high, 
Thou  worshipped  shalt  live,  and  lamented  shalt  die  !" 

With  mantling  cheek  and  throbbing  heart  he  heard — 

It  were  so  sweet  to  leave  a  name  behind 

A  nation  should  adore  !     To  stand  in  life 

The  idol  of  a  crowd  who  sheaf-like  bowed 

Before  his  master-sheaf;  to  watch  the  light 

Brighten  in  beauty's  eye  when  he  approached. 

The  rose  tint  on  her  cheek  grow  deeper  ;   and  to  hear, 

Where'er  he  turned,  amid  whatever  throng, 

"  The  long,  loud  peal  of  popular  acclaim." — 

How  bright  the  picture  ! — But  he  lists  again  : 

A  Circean  song  comes  stealing  on  the  air. 

A  maiden,  lute  in  hand,  with  starry  eyes, 

And  fair  rose  garlands  clustering  round  her  hair, 

Trips  lightly  o'er  the  leaves  that  make  no  stir. 


FAME.    PLEASURE,    AND    RELIGION.  191 

So  light  the  step,  so  fairy-like  the  form, 
It  seems  as  though  the  breeze  had  taken  life. 
She  placed  her  hand  on  his  with  wanton  touch, 
And  though  his  soul  recoiled,  his  lips  exclaimed, 
"  How  wondrous  beautiful !"     Touching  her  lute, 
From  which  a  shower  of  summer  roses  fell, 
She  sang  this  soft  refrain  : 

"  Come,  come  with  me,  thy  home  shall  be 

As  fair  as  e'er  was  mortal  home  ; 
And  when  its  beauties  fail  to  charm, 
Thou  at  my  side  shalt  idly  roam.  > 
I'll  strew  thy  path  with  mignonnette, 

As  through  the  shady  trees  we  rove  ; 
And  deck  thee  with  the  fairest  flowers 
That  ever  bloomed  in  sylvan  grove. 
I'll  bear  thee  then  to  yonder  throng — 

List !  hear  their  music  low  and  sweet ; 
There  thou  shalt  hear  the  gushing  song, 

There  thou  shalt  kneel  at  beauty's  feet ; 
Then  come,  oh  !  come  with  me  ! 

The  crystal  cup,  that  proudly  bears 

The  wine  that  richest,  ruddiest  glows, 
Shall  touch  thy  lip,  and  thou'lt  forget 

What  thou  hast  known  of  cares  and  woes  ; 
It  hath  a  sweet  oblivion, — 

That  rich  juice  of  the  purple  vine  ; — 
Then  come — fair  beauty  thou  shalt  win, 

Her  jewelled  bosom  press  to  thine ! 
I  mark  the  quick  light  in  thine  eyes, 

Thy  gentle,  yielding  smile  I  see  ; 


192  FAME,    PLEASURE,    AND    RELIGION. 

I  knew  no  youth  could  e'er  refuse 

A  maiden  young  and  fair  like  me. 
They  call  me  Pleasure,  well  they  may, 
My  life  is  like  a  summer  day  ;— 

Then  come,  oh  !  come  with  me." 
'Raptured  he  stood — her  white  and  rounded  arm 
About  his  neck  was  thrown.     His  heart-strings  thrilled 
With  the  wild,  mad  delirium  of  joy  ; 
But  while  her  warm,  ripe  lips  were  pressed  to  his, 
And  her  white  fingers  toyed  with  his  own, 
He  heard  a  low,  deep  voice,  and  turning  saw 
That  pale,  pure  maid,  Religion.     Stern  her  face, 
Like  some  avenging  angel's,  but  it  wore 
No  trace  of  anger,  only  pity. 

"  No  gold  and  gems  I  offer  thee, 

No  fadeless  wreath  of  bay  ; 

Nor  do  I  promise  that  thy  life 

Shall  be  an  endless  May. 
Proud  Fame  speaks  falsely  in  thine  ear, 

As  thou  wilt  later  learn  ; 
The  fruit  she  gives  will  on  thy  lips 

To  Sodom  apples  turn  : 
And  Pleasure  soon  would  pierce  thy  soul 

With  rose- wreathed,  poisonous  dart ; 
Her  reckless  laughter  and  her  mirth 

Conceal  a  ruined  heart. 
Oh !  let  her  then  entice  thee  not 

To  yonder  giddy  throng", 
Where  wanton  vice  is  revelling 
In  wine,  and  jest,  and  song. 


FAME,    PLEASURE,    AND    RELIGION.  193 

But  be  my  own — thy  path  may  not 

Be  strewn  with  flowers  alway  ; 
Yet  much  of  sunshine  thou  shalt  find 

Even  in  life's  little  day. 
Steep  is  the  path  ;  and  great,  perhaps, 

May  be  thy  sufferings  here  ; 
But  bear  thy  Cross — when  Heaven  is  reached, 

A  Crown  awaits  thee  there !" 

He  turned  aside,  while  Fame  and  Pleasure  fled, 
With  disappointed  looks.     The  angel  shout 
Of  victory  reached  his  ears—  his  triumph  told  1 
And  with  Religion's  hand  clasped  in  his  own, 
He  walked  adown  the  shaded  vale  of  life. 


WOMAN'S   LOVE. 

Too  late  comes  thy  farewell ;  to  love  thee  only, 
Dream  of  thee  only,  now  must  be  my  fate  ; 

By  all  the  memory  of  thy  love-lit  glances, 
Thy  words  of  warning  reach  my  ear  too  late  ! 

For  I  have  learned  to  listen  for  thy  coming, 
To  count  the  hours  when  thou  art  far  from  me  ; 

And  memory,  faithful  one,  is  ever  turning 
To  thee !  to  thee  ! 

In  vain  to  me  a  farewell  thou  may'st  whisper, 

And  say  that  all  the  past  must  be  forgot ; 
In  vain  thou  tellest  me  of  future  happiness ; 

Would  it  be  happiness  where  thou  wert  not  ? 
I  may  not  give  my  young  heart  to  another, 

'Twill  follow  thee  wherever  thou  may'st  rove. 
By  the  pure  stars  which  burn  above  me  nightly, 

By  yon  fair  moon  that  gilds  the  sky  above, 
None  else  shall  win,  although  by  thee  forsaken, 
My  wealth  of  love. 

My  young  heart  cherished  dreams  before  I  met  thee, 
But  they  were  fancies  fair,  and  false,  and  vain  ; 

And  thou,  thou  art  my  first  love,  and  my  only, 
For  none  may  win  its  worship  wild  again. 

If  thou  wouldst  but  return  its  native  lightness, 
Give  back  the  flower  the  fragrance  it  has  lost, 

Then  would  I  say,  "  Farewell !  go  and  forget  me  !" 
Though  dear  the  cost ! 

(194)    ' 


WOMAN'S  LOVE.  195 

This  may  not  be  ; — who  from  the  wounded  spirit 

Can  bear  away  its  bitterness  and  pain  ? 
Whose  hand  restore  the  midnight  torch  when  wasted? 

A  thousand  echoes  cry — In  vain — in  vain  ! 
Oh  !  hadst  thou  loved  me  with  such  fond  devotion 

As  I  believed  when  thou  and  I  first  met — 
When  thou  didst  win  me  with  thy  voice  of  music — 

It  were  no  easy  task  to  say  "  forget." 
Could  I  forget  thee  ?     Nay !  some  kind  remembrance 
Would  linger  yet. 

The  flower  thy  love  would  shade  from  every  evil, 

Would  die  without  the  sunlight  of  thy  smile  ; 
Though  nursed  and  cherished  by  a  hand  as  tender, 

'Twould  bloom  in  beauty  but  a  little  while. 
Thy  weight  of  woe,  however  dark  and  heavy, 

My  heart,  grown  strong,  would  gladly,  bravely 

bear, 

And  die  with  thee,  than  live — oh!  drear  existence! — 
Without  thee  here. 

Speak  not  to  me  of  early  fault  or  error, 

My  voice  shall  never  reach  thee  to  reprove  ; 
I  know  how  heavily  was  pressed  upon  thee 

The  memory  of  an  early  blighted  love. 
And  when  some  chord,  touched  roughly  by  remem 
brance, 

Awoke  the  broken  music  of  that  chime, 
I  know  thy  love — thy  wrong — her  chill  unkindness, 

Hath  led  thee  oft  to  folly  and  to  crime, 
As  thou  didst  strive  to  drown  in  midnight  revel 
The  voice  of  time. 


196  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

Not  mine  to  meet  thee  with  a  cold  upbraiding, — 
Nay,  nay  :  too  sorely  hath  thy  heart  been  wrung  ; 

I  read  thy  sorrow,  and  thy  bitter  struggle, 
In  the  sad  music  trembling  from  thy  tongue. 

Thou  may'st  have  erred,  but  I — how  can  I  chide  thee? 
I  say  to  thee,  as  Jesus  said  before, 

In  words  full  of  forgiveness  and  of  pity, 
"  Go,  sin  no  more !" 

And  tell  me  not  of  thy  too  darkened  pathway  ; 

Thou  hast  no  sorrow  that  I  would  not  bear, 
No  grief  my  fond  devotion  would  not  lessen, 

No  cloud  to  meet  in  which  I  would  not  share. 
And  'twere  a  cruel  kindness  to  forsake  me, 

Dreaming  that  I  could  thus  far  happier  be  ; 
Say,  what,  wert  thou  no  longer  smiling  on  me, 

Could  bring  one  moment  even  of  joy  to  me  ? 
The  very  word  to  life,  so  black  and  rayless, 
Seems  mockery. 

Little  he  knows  of  woman's  strong  devotion, 

Who  fancies  she  can  ever  lightly  love  ; 
The  deathless  dower  of  her  heart,  when  given, 

No  cloud,  no  storm,  not  even  death  can  move. 
As  twines  the  woodbine  round  the  time-worn  trellis, 

Determined  there  in  life  or  death  to  cling, 
So  woman's  heart  holds  firmly  to  its  treasure, 

Defying  all  the  storms  that  fate  may  bring  : 
Alas !  vine-like,  too  oft  'tis  found  encircling 
"  A  worthless  thing." 


WOMAN'S  LOVE.  197 

Why  should  I  speak  of  this  ?     I  see  no  shadow 

Dimming  the  radiance  of  my  star  ; — ah  !  small 
Thy  errors  ;  I  could  almost  wish  them  greater, 

So  thou  rnight'st  see  that  I  forgive  them  all. 
Ah !  how  could  she  to  whom  thy  young  heart's  worship 

Went  wildly  forth,  turn  cruelly  from  thee  ? 
Oh  !  bright  enough  thy  many  nameless  virtues, 

To  hide  a  thousand  faults,  if  such  might  be. 
She  were,  however  fair,  and  good,  and  lovely, 
Scarce  worthy  thee. 

But  if  thou  lovest  me  not,  then  leave,  oh  !  leave  me  ; 

I'd  gladly  of  thy  sorrows  bear  a  part, 
Yet  cannot,  even  with  her,  the  loved  so  early, 

Consent  to  share  in  a  divided  heart. 
True,  Love's  sweet  lute,  long,  long  before  I  met  thee, 

Had  woke  its  thrilling  music  in  my  breast  ; 
'Twas  but  a  faint  prelude — my  soul  has  given 
"  Thee  all  the  rest." 

Take  back  that  cold  farewell — that  word  so  useless, 

That  mocking  sound,  since  we — we  both  have  loved ; 
Thou  knowest  my  heart  belongs  to  thee — thee  only  ; 

The  test  has  tried  it,  and  its  truth  has  proved. 
Chase  from  thy  brow  that  dark,  unwelcome  shadow  ; 

Come,  let  thy  blue  eyes  smile  on  me  once  more.— 
I  dreamed  such  bitter  things  ! — oh  !  bright  awak 
ing  !— 
Thank  heaven  !  the  wild  mad  fever  dream  is  o'er  ; 

For  oh !  my  life,  without  thy  cheering  presence, 
Such  blackness  wore ! 


198  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

Farewell !  who  said  farewell  ?     I  trust  all  gladly 
With  thine,  adown  life's  stream,  my  little  barque ; 

No  cloud  upon  thy  pathway  glooming,  dearest, 
Could  fright  me  from  thy  side,  however  dark. 

I  place  my  hand  in  thy  warm  clasp  all  fearless, 
And  welcome  even  storms  if  shared  with  thee  ! 

And  if  it  lead  to  death,  so  tkou  art  with  me, 
'Tis  bliss  to  me. 

Farewell!  I  dare  not,  cannot,  will  not  say  it, 

While  thou  art  here,  thy  blue  eyes  meeting  mine  ; 
The  world  may  wonder,  prophesying  sorrow, 

Still,  fearlessly,  I  link  my  fate  to  thine. 
And  if  thy  love  is  fated,  as  thou  deemest, 

To  bring  its  owner  only  woe  and  care, 
Still  I  accept  thy  heart,  if  I  one  moment 

May  smile  away  its  weight  of  dull  despair, 
And  turn  from  youth,  so  gay,  so  bright,  so  blooming, 
To  witJier  tliere. 


TO    A   YOUNG   POETESS. 

THY  midnight  eyes  are  beaming  with  a  light — 

A  wild,  fierce  light  of  anguish  and  despair, 
As  though  within  the  garden  of  thy  heart 

Each  bud  of  happiness  had  perished  there  : 
Upon  the  roses  of  life's  youthful  morn 

There  seems  to  lie  a  hidden  winter  blight ; 
And  thy  young  glorious  being  now  seems  merged 

Into  a  weary,  rayless,  endless  night ; 
And  from  thy  lute  there  comes  a  wailing,  weeping, 
As  if  a  bitter  hand  its  chords  were  sweeping. 

Say,  hast  thou  watched  some  noble  ship  at  sea 

Go  down,  when  all  was  quiet  and  serene  ? 
And  hast  thou  wandered  by  some  shore  at  eve, 

And  watched  the  wave  where  late  a  wreck  had 

been? 
Perchance  thou  too  hast  seen  at  such  a  time  ^ 

A  shapeless  mass  upon  the  waters  float ; 
Some  plank,  to  tell  of  that  proud  vessel  gone, 

Perhaps  a  "  broken  torch,  or  oarless  boat ;" 
And  thou  hast  said,  when  all  seemed  calm  and  fair, 
How  much  of  happiness  has  perished  here ! 

Say,  hast  thou  watched  some  sunset  sky  at  eve, 
And  seen  some  star  die  out,  quick  as  a  thought  ? 

And  as  you  marked  it  fading  suddenly, 
What  flood  of  musing  it  to  fancy  brought ! 

(199) 


200  TO    A    YOUNG    POETESS. 

You  could  not  tell  the  place  of  its  retreat. 

You  scarcely  missed  it  from  the  sky  o'erhead  ; 
Its  young  life  was  so  brief,  so  quickly  o'er, 

That  ere  you  saw  its  beauty  it  had  fled  ; 
And  yet  you  felt  a  momentary  blight, 
To  know  one  star  had  left  the  brow  of  night. 

And  hast  thou  wandered  through  some  garden  bed, 

Where  bloomed  rare  flowers  of  every  kind  and  hue, 
Sweet-scented  blossoms,  bowing  each  young  head 

Beneath  the  kisses  of  the  morning  dew — 
The  dew  which  glistened  on  each  tender  leaf, 

Like  diamonds  in  a  glittering  diadem — 
Nor  turned  aside  to  mark  some  blighted  flower, 

Some  fragile  lily  broken  at  the  stem, 
Which  man's  rude  hand  had  brushed  in  passing  by, 
And  left  in  loneliness  to  fade  and  die? 

The  ocean  may  seem  calm  and  quiet  now, 

Yet  wrecks  are  lying  'neath  the  treacherous  wave  ; 
And  underneath  those  waters  so  serene, 

Full  many  a  golden  venture  found  a  grave. 
The  sky  may  seem  as  bright  as  e'er  before, 

Yet  one  soft  light  hath  left  the  starry  sphere  ; 
The  garden  still  may  bloom  with  beauty  rich, 

But  yet  it  has  one  perished  blossom  there  : 
So  thou  hast  watched  the  star,  the  flower  depart, 
And  wrecks  are  lying  in  thy  hidden  heart. 

These  mournful  images  may  best  express 

My  feelings  when  thy  fair  young  face  is  seen  ; 


TO   A   YOUNG   POETESS.  201 

Some  truant  sigh,  which  steals  with  thy  gay  words, 
Is  like  the  plank  which  tells  that  wreck  hath  been  : 

And  though  thine  eyes  may  sparkle  wondrous  bright, 
And  though  with  smiles  thy  rose-leaf  lips  may  part. 

That  sigh,  half  breathed,  doth  plainly  tell  to  me 
Some  ship  of  joy  found  wreck  within  thy  heart : 

I  know  some  star  has  lately  left  the  sphere, 

Some  tender  blossom  died  in  beauty  there. 


Thy  songs,  fair  Poetess,  are  very  sad, 

Yet,  like  the  dying  swan's,  are  wondrous  sweet ; 
They  mind  me  of  the  wail  of  some  caged  bird, 

That  'gainst  the  bar  its  weary  wing  doth  beat : 
Not  quietly  thy  stream  of  music  flows, 

But,  like  some  restless  river  in  its  moan, 
It  dashes  wildly  on,  tempestuously, 

And  ever  hath  a  fierce,  despairing  tone. 
A  wail  is  always  on  the  troubled  tide, 
Begging  for  that  which  destiny  denied. 

Thy  cry  for  happiness  is  vain  !     To  thee 

Was  given  the  sweet  but  fatal  gift  of  song  ; 
Accept  thy  destiny,  and  bear  its  pangs, 

For  fame  and  joy  to  one  can  ne'er  belong  : 
The  laurel  bud  of  praise,  the  rose  of  bliss, 

Ne'er  bloomed  together  in  an  earthly  bed  ; 
The  first  is  thine,  and  it  must  be  thy  lot 

To  see  the  other  faded,  pale,  and  dead : 
Thy  doom  is  on  thee, — win  a  deathless  name, 
Weep  not  for  happiness,  but  live  on  fame. 
9* 


202  TO    A    YOUNG    POETESS. 

Go,  sweep  thy  lyre  once  more,  fair  child  of  song ! 

But  few  will  heed  the  bitter  broken  chord 
That  mars  the  sweetness  of  thy  gushing  lays  ; 

The  world  will  listen,  and  the  world  applaud : 
Yet  what  is  fame  to  woman  ?  what  to  her 

"  The  long,  loud  peal  of  popular  acclaim  ?" 
Gladly  would  she  resign  its  emptiness, 

To  write  on  one  fond,  faithful  heart — her  name  ; 
Nor  walk  again  Ambition's  rugged  streets. 
If  she  could  win  of  human  love  its  sweets. 

If  joy  might  come  to  her,  with  noisy  fame, 

And  all  its  pomp  and  pride,  she'd  gladly  part ; 
And  crush  the  laurel-wreath,  if  she  might  wear 

The  rose  of  happiness  within  her  heart : — 
In  vain — her  path  is  chosen  ;  nevermore 

The  flower  of  hope,  with  fragrance  rich  and  rare, 
May  shed  its  perfume  on  her  lonely  heart, — 

There  lieth  only  withered  blossoms  there  ; 
And  from  the  cradle  to  the  chilling  tomb, 
No  rose  may  'round  her  darkened  pathway  bloom. 

Such  doom,  thou  fair  young  Poetess,  is  thine  • 

Fate  marked  thee  as  a  victim  from  thy  birth, 
Breathed  in  thy  soul  Ambition's  proud  desire, 

And  happiness  thou  ne'er  shalt  find  on  earth. 
The  road  thy  feet  must  travel  never  yet 

Gave  birth  to  buds  of  joy  ;  and  human  love 
Ne'er  cast  its  starry  lustre  o'er  the  path 

That  leads  to  Fame's  proud,  rocky  heights  above. 


TO   A   YOUNG   POETESS.  203 

Thy  lot  is  on  thee  ;  suffering  and  tears 

Must  be  thy  portion  through  life's  weary  years. 

Yet  thou  wilt  sigh  for  some  warm,  loving  hand 

To  press  thine  own — some  lip  to  touch  thy  cheek  ; 
And  thou  wilt  long  for  tender,  gentle  words 

No  human  heart  to  thee  may  ever  speak  ; 
When  thy  young  heart,  warm  as  thy  native  clime 

Loves  blindly,  passionately,  and  in  vain, 
And  life  to  thee,  as  yet  so  young  in  years, 

Seems  but  a  thing  of  weariness  and  pain, — 
Yet,  weep  not  at  the  doom  which  fate  has  given, 
Perhaps  thy  soul  may  find  its  mate  in  heaven  1 


THE  GRAVE  IN  THE  HEART. 

I  AM  dreaming,  sweetly  dreaming, 

Of  a  love  my  spirit  nursed  ; 
Ere  the  foul  breath  of  suspicion 

Had  its  child-like  trust  so  cursed. 
When  my  heart  wove  many  chaplets, 

Rosy-petalled,  sunny-leaved  ; 
When  my  soul  in  all  confided, 

When  I  listened  and  believed. 

Shall  I  whisper,  gently  whisper, 

Of  those  eyes  whose  depths  of  blue 
Made  for  me  an  earthly  heaven, 

All  the  heaven  my  childhood  knew  ? 
Nay,  I  sinned,  was  ever  sinning, 

Thus  to  love,  and  love  so  well  ; 
And  mayhap  thou'lt  deem  it  weakness 

Of  that  early  love  to  tell. 

Was  he  false  ?    Loved  he  another  ? 

Nay  ;  these  things  I  answer -not  ; 
Cold  he  may  have  been,  and  heartless — 

On  that  soul  /  saw  no  blot. 
All  the  world  might  call  him  '  trifler/ 

Still  that  name  I  must  revere  ; 
All  the  world  his  faults  be  naming, 

Still  my  heart  shall  hold  him  dear. 


THE  GRAVE  IN  THE  HEART.          205 

Lives  he  still  ?     I  may  not  answer, 

Whether  I  his  death  bewailed — 
In  my  heart  there  is  a  chamber, 

Which  in  crape  is  always  veiled  ; 
Stranger  hand  may  ne'er  unveil  it, 

Never  pierce  its  mystic  gloom — 
There  a  skeleton  is  lying, 

And  that  chamber  is  his  tomb 

I  may  learn  to  love  another, 

While  the  years  each  other  chase  ; 
But  my  heart  will  then  be  dreaming 

Of  that  fairer,  sweeter  face. 
He  may  worthy  be,  and  noble, 

Just  as  good,  and  just  as  brave  ; — 
Yet,  my  heart  that  crape-veiled  chamber 

Still  will  keep — love's  early  grave ! 


THE  DYIXG  YOUNG  WIFE. 

THEY  tell  me,  when  they  gaze  upon 

My  dim  and  sunken  eye, 
I'm  passing  from  the  earth — alas ! 

I  am  so  young  to  die ! 
So  young  to  feel  the  tide  of  life 

Fast  ebbing  from  my  heart ; 
To  look  on  those  I  fondly  love, 

And  feel  that  we  must  part. 

'Twas  but  a  few  short  years  ago 

I  stood  a  happy  bride  ; 
And  left  my  childhood's  early  home 

To  test  the  love  untried. 
The  future  seemed  so  bright  to  me, 

With  joy  my  pulse  beat  high  ; — 
Life's  cup  is  scarcely  tasted  yet — 

They  say  that  I  must  die. 

0  God  !  to  know  my  pulse  each  day 

Is  flickering  and  slow  ; 
To  feel  the  life-blood  of  the  heart 

Grow  sluggish  in  its  flow  ! — 
And  when  I  struggle  to  forget, 

And  smile  amid  the  gay  ; 
A  shadowy  hand  I  seem  to  see, 

That  beckons  me  away. 
(206) 


THE   DYING   YOUNG   WIPE.  207 

I  am  so  young — so  very  young  \ 

0  Death  !  why  come  to  me 
Whose  life  is  new? — go  seize  upon 

The  winter-blighted  tree. 
Take  for  thy  prey  some  aged  one, 

Who's  seen  each  joy  pass  by, 
And  scarcely  hath  a  wish  to  live — 

1  am  too  young  to  die  I 

They  brought  to-night  my  bridal  veil, 

And  twined  it  o'er  my  brow  ; — 
I  seemed  a  shrouded  nun — iny  face 

Is  pale  and  sunken  now. 
I  forced  a  piteous,  mocking  smile, — 

I  tried,  but  could  not  speak, — 
To  see  my  silken  bridal  robe, 

Scarce  whiter  than  my  cheek. 

The  world  is  bright  and  beautiful, 

The  stream  glides  softly  by  ; 
There's  beauty  on  the  sleeping  earth, 

There's  beauty  in  the  sky. 
The  lamps  of  heaven  so  brightly  burn, 

The  flowers  so  graceful  wave — 
Alas !  to-morrow  eve  those  stars 

Will  shine  upon  my  grave  ! 

Ah  !  when  the  heart  is  cold  and  still, 
That  once  beat  high  and  warm  ; 

And  when  a  marble  seal  is  pressed 
Above  my  fading  form  : 


208  THE   DYING   YOUNG   WIFE. 

And  when  I  slumber  calm  and  still, 

In  some  lone,  quiet  spot, 
I  know  that  I,  once  loved  so  iveU, 

Will  quickly  be  forgot . 

Loved  one !  draw  closer  to  me  now, — 

I've  something  for  thine  ear  ; 
Nay  :  weep  not — from  thy  cheek  wipe  off 

That  bitter,  scalding  tear. 
I  would  but  pray  that  when  the  flowers 

Shall  bloom  my  tomb  above, 
That  thou  wilt  sometimes  think  of  me 

With  tenderness  and  love. 

I  know  thy  heart  is  sorely  wrung 

With  grief  and  anguish  now  ; 
I  see  the  look  of  wretchedness 

That  settles  on  thy  brow  : — 
And  yet,  ere  many  years  have  passed, 

Ere  many  moons  shall  wane, 
Thy  grief  will  pass  away — and  thou 

Wilt  learn  to  love  again. 

Back,  selfish  tears  !  down,  struggling  heart ! 

I  know  that  it  must  be  ; 
Some  other  life  thou'lt  bless  with  that 

Fond  love  thou  gavest  me. 
I  know  that  when  the  chilling  grave 

Hath  ta'en  me  from  thy  side, 
Thou'lt  fondly  woo  another  one, 

And  win  thy  second  bride. 


THE    DYING    YOUNG    WIFE.  209 

She'll  press  her  lips  to  that  warm  cheek, 

That  once  mine  own  have  pressed  ; 
She'll  twine  her  arms  around  thy  neck, 

And  nestle  on  thy  breast. 
And  thou  wilt  murmur  love  to  her 

In  soft  and  gentle  tone, 
While  /  am  slumbering  in  the  grave, 

Forgotten,  and  alone ! 

Yet,  sometimes,  when  at  evening  hour 

Her  hand  is  clasped  in  thine, — 
Thy  hand,  that  in  our  early  love 

So  tenderly  held  mine  ; 
And  sometimes,  when  her  low-toned  voice 

Shall  softly  sing  to  thee, — 
Oh !  let  thy  memory  awake 

Some  passing  dream  of  me. 

'Tis  all  I  ask  ; — I  would  not  have 

Thee  mourn  my  early  doom 
Too  long,  nor  shroud  thy  youthful  heart 

In  never-ending  gloom  : 
I  would  not  have  thee  wildly  weep, 

When  I  have  left  thy  side  ; 
I  only  ask  remembrance  kind 

Of  her — thy  lost  young  bride. 

And  ye,  iny  children  !  motherless 

So  soon,  alas !  to  be  ; 
My  little  ones,  that  lovingly 

Have  nestled  on  my  knee, — 


210  THE    DYING    YOUNG    WIFE. 

Soon  must  the  orphan's  fate  be  thine. 
Its  anguish  deep  and  wild  : 

Oh  !  God,  I  would  thou  now  wouldst  take 
Each  little  angel  child. 

For  who  will  soothe  your  infant  woes 

When  I  am  gone  from  sight  ? 
And  who  will  watch  beside  your  couch, 

Throughout  the  livelong  night  ? 
And  who  will  join  your  little  plays, 

And  kiss  each  baby  brow  ? 
Whose  heart  feel  sad  when  ye  shall  say, 

"  I  have  no  mother  now  "? 

To-morrow  ye  will  lift  the  sheet 

That  hides  my  faded  face, 
And  wonder  why  I  don't  return 

Each  timid,  warm  embrace. 
Thou'lt  wonder  .why  my  morning  kiss 

Thou  hast  so  vainly  plead  ; 
And  why  my  lips  are  cold  and  still — 

Nor  know  thy  mother  dead  ! 

Thy  mother's  chair  will  vacant  be  ; 

Her  garments  on  the  wall 
Will  useless  hang,  nor  will  she  hear 

Thine  eager,  listening  call. 
Her  voice  around  the  hearth  at  eve 

Will  never  more  be  heard  : — 
In  time  thy  mothers  name  may  be 

A  long  forgotten  word! 


THE    DYING   YOUNG   WIFE.  211 

Farewell,  my  babes !  God  grant  that  she 

Who  fills  my  empty  place, 
May  wear,  when  she  shall  look  on  ye, 

A  gentle,  loving  face. 
God  grant  her  eyes  may  ne'er  be  stern, 

Her  voice  grow  cold  and  high 
In  angry  tones — alas !  'tis  hard, 

"Tis  very  hard  to  die ! 

'Tis  hard  to  leave  my  helpless  ones 

Consigned  to  stranger  hand  ; 
To  enter  in  my  early  youth 

The  dim,  mysterious  land. 
Life  is  so  new,  so  bright  to  me, 

And  hath  so  many  a  tie 
Of  human  love  to  bind  me  here — 

I'm  very  young  to  die  ! 

Draw  nearer  yet,  beloved  one ! 

With  that  fond  love  of  old  ; 
Press  kisses  quickly  on  my  lips, 

They  fust  are  growing  cold. 
Tell  me  again  that  you  forgive 

Each  harsh,  each  thoughtless  word  ; 
Tell  me  once,  more — for  in  the  grave, 

Thy  voice  cannot  be  heard  ! 

If  carelessly  within  thy  heart 

I  ever  placed  a  thorn  ; 
If  e'er  I  gave  thee  needless  pain, 

Forget  it  when  I'm  gone. 


212  THE    DYING    YOUNG    WIFE. 

Some  youthful  error  may  have  grieved 
When  I  might  know  it  not ; — 

Think  only  of  my  virtues,  love, 
And  be  the  rest  forgot. 

If  ever  thou  shouldst  miss  the  voice 

That  once  to  thee  did  sing  : 
If  ever  life  should  seem  to  thee 

A  bitter,  weary  thing  : 
Come  to  my  quiet,  lonely  grave, 

And  kneel  in  humble  prayer  ; 
And  I  will  steal  from  heaven  above, 

To  meet  and  bless  thee  there  I 


WHAT  THE  MOON  SHINES  ON. 


A    PRIZE   POEM. 


FACES  of  beauty  in  festive  throngs, 

Lit  up  with  music,  and  mirth,  and  songs  ; 

Eyes  of  bewildering,  varying  hue — 

Seldom  on  spirits  sincere  and  true  ; — 

Jewelled  bosoms  and  Parian  brow, 

Jesting  salute  and  courtly  bow  ; 

There,  but  alas  !  not  there  alone, 

Are  some  of  the  scenes  that  the  moon  shines  on. 

Soft  falling  veil,  and  a  bridal  wreath 
Hiding  a  struggling  heart  beneath  ; 
Altar  prepared,  and  a  victim-bride, 
Sacrificed  for  some  kinsman's  pride  ; 
Falsely  vowing  to  love  and  obey. 
While  her  truant  heart  is  away,  away  ; 
Her  jewelled  hand  clasped  in  one  more  warm, 
While  close  at  her  side  stands  an  unseen  form  1 

Hark  !  'tis  a  spirit-voice  she  hears, 
While  her  lashes  conceal  the  coming  tears  ; 
Is  it  the  one  which  blessed  her  youth. 
Ere  gold  had  purchased  her  woman's  truth  ? 
Xay  !  'twas  only  a  moonbeam  spoke 
Words  to  a  heart  that  was  well-nigh  broke : 
Sad  are  the  scenes  I'm  doomed  to  see, 
Maiden,  T  weep  while  I  gaze  on  thee. 

(213) 


214  WHAT   THE    MOON    SHINES   ON. 

A  bower  of  roses — a  youthful  pair 

Learning  their  first  love-lesson  there  ; 

Soft  hands  clasped,  and  eyes  cast  down 

To  hide  a  blush,  not  a  gathering  frown. 

Ah  !  the  moon  would  smile  if  she  did  not  know 

That  human  love  so  oft  brings  woe  ; 

That  those  who  listen,  and  most  believe, 

Must  learn  that  the  fondest  ones  deceive. 

A  coffin  black — and  a  young  bride  there, 
With  the  white  flowers  still  in  her  shining  hair  ; 
Her  hands  clasped  over  a  bosom  chill, 
Where  the  diamond  glitters  proudly  still. 
Smiles  on  the  lips,  where  the  kiss  of  love 
Is  lingering  yet,  though  they  ne'er  may  move — 
0  God  !  how  they  pray  for  a  tone,  a  breath, 
From  the  pale  lips  closed  with  the  seal  of  death. 

A  pallet  of  rags  in  a  corner  lying 
Catching  the  breath  of  the  faint  and  dying  ; 
No  pillow  to  ease  the  aching  head — 
A  pitcher  of  water — a  crust  of  bread. 
Curtains  of  rags  of  various  hue, 
Where  the  keen  north  wind  comes  whistling  through 
No  watcher  to  tell  when  life's  sands  run  out — 
Only  the  moon  on  her  midnight  route. 

No  sounds  of  music,  no  tone  of  mirth ; 
A  cold,  bare  room,  and  a  clean,  bare  hearth  ;~ 
A  handful  of  ashes,  and  children's  despair, 
Crying  because  no  warmth  is  there  ; 


WHAT   THE    MOON    SHINES    ON.  215 

Uncombed  hair,  and  small  naked  feet 
That  have  paced  all  day  the  snow-clad  street ; 
Nursed  by  hunger,  and  want,  and  pain — 
Asking  alms,  but  alas  !  in  vain. 

A  sickly  light — an  uncarpeted  room 
Shrouded  in  poverty's  darkening  gloom  ; 
No  picture  to  brighten  the  naked  wall, 
Or  gladden  when  tears  unheeded  fall. 
A  weary  woman  in  want  and  dirt, 
Singing  again  the  '  song  of  the  shirt ;' 
Wearily  toiling  for  life — for  bread, 
While  the  cold  night  lamps  die  out  overhead. 

A  single  candle  of  sickly  beam — 

Dreary  abode  for  a  poet's  dream  ! 

A  fair  young  maiden  with  struggling  soul, 

Breathing  her  life  in  a  glowing  scroll  ; 

Fashioning  thoughts  that  have  filled  her  brain 

With  beauty  that  made  her  forget  life's  pain  ; 

Imparting  to  paper  a  music  sweet, 

While  her  hands  glide  over  the  snowy  sheet. 

Dreaming  that  lie  may  read  her  song, 
And  sigh  because  of  her  early  wrong  ; 
Catching  in  momentary  pause. 
A  far,  faint  sound  of  the  world's  applause. 
But  the  hectic  spot  blooms  on  her  cheek, 
And  the  hacking  cough  is  low  and  weak  ; — 
Yes  ;  fame  will  come — when  the  willoivs  wave 
Their  graceful  boughs  o'er  a  nameless  grave. 


'216  WHAT   THE    MOON    SHINES    ON. 

Hush  !  'tis  the  dice-box — oh  !  no,  not  there  ! 
See  the  ghastly  face,  and  the  wild  despair  ! 
The  greedy  clutch  of  the  winning  one, 
The  maniac  glance  of  the  wretch  undone  : 
Think  of  the  weeping  sister  and  mother, 
Mourning  the  crimes  of  a  son  and  brother  ; — 
Fortune,  and  truth,  and  honor  gone, 
Are  some  of  the  scenes  the  moon  shines  on. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  sound  of  wild  revelry, 
The  wine-cup  sparkles  and  floweth  free, 
Wreathed  with  roses  but  bearing  beneath 
A  hideous  serpent  whose  name  is — Death  ! 
Hear  the  ribald  jest,  and  the  laughter  loud, 
And  the  boisterous  mirth  of  a  reckless  crowd  ; — 
The  moon  smiles  never  on  such  a  spot : 
Nor  Virtue — her  very  name  's  forgot. 

Not  there  ! — not  there  ! — 'tis  the  gilded  hall, 
Where  Satan  gloats  over  our  race's  fall  • 
Sin  hides  under  that  polished  floor, 
And  faces  are  there  that  blush  no  more  : 
The  painted  cheek  and  lip  are  there, 
Striving  to  hide  the  soul's  despair. — 
Oh  !  the  laugh  which  rings  on  the  listening  ear, 
Is  mirth  from  the  whited  sepulchre  ! 

Stars  of  the  heaven  !  I  would  not  be  ye, 
Too  dark  are  the  scenes  that  you  often  see  ; 
Moon  !  I  envy  you  not  your  light, 
It  falleth  too  often  on  woo  and  blight. 


WHAT   THE   MOON   SHINES   ON.  217 

Perjured  soul,  and  a  broken  vow, 

Crushed  heart  hid  by  a  smiling  brow  ; 

Sin-cursed  soul  and  an  oily  tongue 

Gloating  o'er  tears  from  beauty  wrung — 

Virtue  crushed  down  by  iron  heel — 

Fortune  with  ever  turning  wheel 

Raising  proud  vice  to  an  earthly  throne, 

While  the  honest  poor  weep  and  die  alone. 

Secret  crimes  reached  not  by  law, 

Hearts  where  the  canker-worms  always  gnaw- 

Bridal  favors — and  funeral  pall — 

Watched  by  the  God  who  loves  us  all : — 

These — and  the  tale  is  not  yet  done — 

Are  some  of  the  scenes  that  the  moon  shines  on. 

10 


FAREWELL. 

"  Oh !  in  that  fatal  word  Farewell — howe'er 
We  promise,  hope,  believe,  there  breathes  despair  1"— BYKOV. 

OH  !  'tis  a  bitter  thing  to  see 

Our  youthful  hopes  die  one  by  one, 
The  joys  which  bright 

Made  life's  short  day, 
Fade  like  some 

Transient  dream  away : 
But  oh  !  there  is  a  deeper  woe 

That  through  the  soul  storm-like  doth  move  ; 
'Tis  when  we  breathe  that  word — farewell ! 
To  one  we  love. 

Oh !  'tis  a  bitter  thing  to  find 

Our  early  dreams  were  false  and  vain, 
When  all  the  visions 

Of  our  youth 
Are  melted  by 

The  rod  of  Truth. 
But  oh  !  there  is  a  bitterer  pang, 

And  one  more  full  of  anguished  pain  ; 
'Tis  '  farewell '  breathed  by  one  we  ne'er 
May  see  again. 

'Tis  bitter,  too,  when  first  we  learn 
That  friendship  is  a  hollow  word— 

(218) 


FAREWELL.  219 

An  idle  sound, 

A,  fading  dream  ; 
A  cloak  to  hide 

Some  artful  scheme. 

But  oh  !  when  those  the  young,  the  loved, 
Take  one  last  lingering  look  and  part ; 
A  deeper  woe,  a  heavier  blight, 
Falls  on  the  heart. 

No  parting  word — no  parting  kiss 

Can  take  from  that  dark  hour  its  sting  ; 
No  whispered  vow, 

Though  fondly  spoken  ; 
No  promise  sweet 

Of  faith  unbroken  : 
Though  lip  be  pressed  to  lip,  and  hope 

Of  future  happiness  shall  tell  ; 
Still,  'tis  life's  bitterest  grief  to  say 
That  word — farewell ! 

There's  much  besides  inconstancy 
May  chill  the  hearts  that  love  too  well : 
Some  careless  word 

May  float  between ; 
Some  whispering  tongue 

May  intervene. 
For  oh  !  the  world  is  full  of  change, 

And  those  the  warm,  the  trusting-hearted, 
Whom  time  could  ne'er  estrange,  may  be 
By  falsehood  parted. 


220  FAREWELL. 

Ah  !  bitter,  bitter — full  of  woe  ! 

That  fatal  word — that  dirge  of  hope  ! — 
Long,  tender,  wistful 

Glances  cast  ; 
This  parting  kiss 

May  be  your  last ! 
Though  time  might  find  in  after  years 

Your  trust  undimmed,  your  love  unblighted, 
Still  Death  may  come  to  break  the  vow 
Affection  plighted. 


THE   POET'S   DREAM. 

OH  !  strange,  sweet  gift  of  Poesy  ! 

I  would  not  give  thee  up, 
Although  I  know  thou  fillest  for  me 

With  double  griefs  life's  bitter  cup. 
Though  but  for  thee  I  should  not  feel 
The  woes  that  through  my  bosom  steal  ; 
Though  even  happiness  to  me, 
Must  pain  by  its  intensity  ! 
And  pain  a  keener  anguish  see, 
Because  of  thee — because  of  thee ! 
Yet  oh !  the  rapturous  joy  I  know 

At  moments  when  I  call  thee  up, 
Repays  me  for  an  age  of  woe, 

And  sweetens  all  life's  bitter  cup. 

Oh  !  strange,  sweet  gift  of  Poesy  ! 

My  love — my  life — my  all ! 
I  soon  forget  my  transient  pain, 

When  thou  respondest  to  my  call. 
And  should  the  wealthy  and  the  proud, 
The  gay,  the  glad,  the  idle  crowd, 
Look  down  in  pitying  scorn  on  me — 
I  pity  them — they  have  not  thee  ! 
For  visions  greet  my  poet  eye, 
They  with  their  wealth  could  never  buy  ; 

6*  (221) 


222  THE  POET'S  DREAM. 

I  take  from  some  sweet  simple  flower, 
Their  coarser  souls  would  overlook, 

Rich  dreams  for  many  a  future  hour 

Draw  lessons  thence  from  Nature's  book. 

'Tis  true,  oh  !  gift  of  Poesy  ! 

That  I  the  earth-born  child, 
Drew  into  my  young  heart  from  thee, 

Such  yearnings  bitter,  vague  and  wild  ; 
That  beauty,  wheresoe'er  'tis  seen, — 
In  sunny  sky,  or  leaf  of  green, 
In  budding  tree,  or  hill  afar, 
In  blooming  flower,  or  holy  star, 
In  twining  vine,  or  sloping  lawn, 
In  stream  that  ripples  calmly  on  ; 
In  pebble  by  the  sea-shore  found, 
In  heart's-ease  sprinkled  o'er  the  ground, 
In  shell  of  rare  and  curious  hue, 
In  moss  that  'neath  the  ocean  grew, 
In  sunset  cloud  that  floats  in  space, 
Or  sparkling  in  a  human  face, — 
Gives  to  my  soul  such  keen  delight, 
Such  dreams  of  bliss,  such  rapture  bright, 
And  wakens  there  a  deep  refrain, 
A  feeling  less  of  joy  than  pain. 
And  though  from  thee  my  spirit  caught 

Such  fine,  deep  chords,  that  even  pleasure 
Is  by  exquisite  torture  bought, 

I  would  not  give  thee  up — my  treasure ! 
What  care  I  for  the  outer  world  ? 

Its  praise,  its  scorn,  are  naught  to  me  ; 


THE   POET'S   DREAM.  223 

I  live  not  on  its  sniile  or  frown, 
So  long  as  thou  art  left  to  me. 
A  ready  pen,  a  dreamy  hour, 
There  waft  me  to  some  Eden  bower  ; 
And  wandering  there  at  eventide, 
Forget  that  e'er  I  wept  or  sighed. 

Should  friendship  lose  its  sunny  hue, 
And  those  prove  false  I  fancied  true  ; 
Should  hearts  I  deemed  so  fond,  so  warm, 

That  time  their  truth  might  never  shake  ; 
Love  that  I  trusted  in  deceive, 

Yea,  these  all  cruelly  forsake  ; 
The  world  is  still  as  bright  to  me, 
For  I  have  lover — friend — in  thee. 


Oh  !  strange,  sweet  gift  of  Poesy  ! 

Mysterious,  divine  ! 
I'd  barter  all  the  wealth  of  earth 

Only  one  hour  to  call  thee  mine. 
And  since  thou  gavest  my  young  heart 
Its  brightest,  its  divinest  part, 
I  envy  not  the  sea  its  gem, 
Nor  king  his  royal  diadem. 
I  envy  not  the  belle  her  grace, 
I  envy  not  proud  beauty's  face  ; 
I  envy  not  the  great  of  earth — 
Their  regal  wealth,  their  royal  birth. 
I  envy  not  the  artist's  fame, 
Nor  noble  his  distinguished  name  ; 


224  THE  POET'S  DKEAM. 

I  envy  not  the  maiden  fair, 

Whose  lips  may  taste  love's  chalice  rare  ;- 

If  aught  of  these  that  I  have  named 

Could  e'er  my  heart  with  envy  move, 
'Twould  be  the  last  upon  the  list, — 

The  maiden  happy  in  her  love  ! 
But  love  is  fickle — prone  to  changes, 
As  bee  from  flower  to  flower  ranges  ; 
For  none  of  these  would  I  resign 
This  strange,  mysterious  gift  of  mine  1 


THE     MOTHER'S    PRAYER. 

ABOVE  thy  midnight  couch,  my  only  one, 

I  bend  me  low  with  failing  eye  and  dim  ; 
Long  since  has  sunk  the  slowly  setting  sun, 

And  o'er  the  wall  are  shadows  dark  and  grim. 
Thy  plaintive  wail,  so  full  of  pain  and  woe, 

Falls  on  the  heart  ear  of  my  grief-bowed  form ; 
The  tide  of  life  grows  sluggish  in  its  flow  ; 

Cold  is  the  cheek  once  to  my  own  so  warm  : 
O  Father  !  from  my  lips  take  back  the  cup ! 
Child  of  my  love !  I  cannot  give  thee  up ! 

Thy  infant  kiss,  so  innocently  given, 

Thy  vain  attempts  to  lisp  thy  mother's  name 

But  thou  must  go  ;  for  angels  up  in  heaven 

Are  calling  thee,  loved  one,  from  whence  thou  came. 
And  I  shall  gaze  upon  thy  broken  toy, 

Thy  little  hat,  all  useless  on  the  wall, 
And,  gazing,  know  that  thou,  my  heart's  sole  joy, 

Art  lying  where  there's  darkness  over  all. 
0  pitying  Father !  take,  take  back  the  cup ! 
Child  of  my  love !  I  cannot  give  thee  up ! 

One  year  ago  a  little  face  like  thine 

Was  hidden  in  the  darkness  of  the  tomb  ; 

About  my  neck  I  felt  his  arms  untwine, 

Then  laid  him  there,  where  all  was  night  and  gloom. 
10*  (225) 


226  THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 

I've  wept  above  that  hallowed  spot  of  ground, 
Unto  the  earth  with  grief  and  misery  crushed  ; 

The  grass  is  green  above  the  lowly  mound  : 
Must  thy  sad  wailings  in  the  grave  be  hushed  ? 

Saviour,  who  wept  for  us !  take  back  the  cup ! 

Child  of  my  love !  I  cannot  give  thee  up  ! 

But  if  thou  livest,  woman's  lot  is  thine  ; 

The  griefs  entailed  on  her  must  fall  on  thee  ; 
Oft  will  thy  gentle  spirit  sadly  pine 

When  realizing  woman's  destiny. 
To  love  unloved,  my  child,  may  be  thy  doom  ; 

Thy  hopes  may  wither,  and  thy  joys  may  fade  ; 
Better  than  this  the  quiet  of  the  tomb, 

Where  I  thy  infant  brother  sadly  laid — 
Yet  no  !  my  heart  would  break  ! — take  back  the  cup ! 
Child  of  my  love !  I  cannot  give  thee  up  ! 

Yet  sorrow  not  alone  on  thee  might  fall  : 

Sin  with  its  serpent  slime  might  visit  thee 
Better  than  that  the  waving  funeral  pall, 

Although  the  sight  be  maddening  to  see  ; — 
But  thou — thou  art  my  all,  thou  loving  one  ; 

Thou  'rt  the  sole  blessing  nature  to  me  gave  ; 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  thy  rising  sun 

Thus  set — these  arms  would  snatch  thee  from  the 

grave ! 

Oh !  bitter  are  the  dregs  mixed  in  life's  cup ! 
Child  of  my  love !  I  cannot  give  thee  up ! 

A  Saviour  calls  thee  hence, — then  go,  my  child  ; 
Go,  from  the  cares  thy  future  life  might  bring ; 


THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER.  227 

Go,  while  thou  'rt  young,  and  pure,  and  undefiled, 
Ere  thy  young  heart  has  felt  the  adder's  sting. 

But  shall  I  meet  no  more  thy  proffered  kiss, 
Or  clasp  thee  to  my  heart  ?  the  thought  is  woe ! 

At  noon,  at  eve,  at  night,  I  know  I'll  miss 

Thy  soft  white  arms — yet  go,  my  loved  one,  go  : — 

0  Father  1  bitter,  bitter  is  the  cup ! 

Child  of  my  love !  'tis  hard  to  give  thee  up ! 

Ah !  this  is  wrong  :  go  from  a  sin-cursed  earth  ; 

Dark  leaves  thy  book  of  fate  may  have  concealed  ; 
Go !  ere  thy  voice  has  hushed  its  tone  of  mirth, 

And  all  life's  shades  are  to  thy  gaze  revealed : 
I'll  fold  thy  arms  upon  thy  pulseless  breast, 

Thy  brief  but  blissful  dream  of  life  is  past ; 
The  grave  has  won  thee  to  its  quiet  rest, — 

One  kiss,  my  darling  one — it  is  my  last ! 

1  meekly  bow  my  head  to  drink  the  cup  1 
Child  of  my  love !  thy  mother  gives  thee  up ! 


THE     BROKEN     HEART. 

SHE  faded  with  the  last  sweet  summer  blossoms  ; 

When  autumn  leaves  were  scattered  o'er  the  plain, 
We  placed  the  thin  hands  o'er  the  pulseless  bosom, 

And  closed  those  eyes  that  ne'er  would  ope  again. 
Like  some  fair  lily,  from  its  frail  stem  broken 

Just  as  it  opened  into  life  and  light, 
We  marked  her  slowly  fading  with  the  flowers, 

And  soon  she  slept  in  death's  long,  rayless  night. 

How  joyously  had  flown  her  life's  young  hours ! 

Her  voice  rang  out  from  morn  till  starlit  eve 
In  songs  of  gladness  :  never  care  or  sorrow 

Had  come  to  make  that  bright,  free  spirit  grieve  ; 
Her  silvery  laughter,  in  itself  sweet  music, 

Had  echoed  to  the  birdling's  morning  call ; 
And  brightly  bloomed  the  buds  of  joy  around  her, 

Till  lie  came  o'er  her  path  and  blighted  all. 

We  marked  the  timid  flush  steal  o'er  her  features, 
The  veiled  and  downcast  eye  when  he  was  near ; 

And  then,  the  quick,  bright  glance,  so  full  of  meaning* 
All  told  in  silent  language  he  was  dear. 

A  dreamy  look — half  happiness,  half  sorrow- 
Stole  o'er  her  face  when  he  was  at  her  side ; 

Alas !  even  that  too  plainly  was  revealing 
The  love  which  she  so  plainly  strove  to  hide. 

(228) 


THE    BROKEN    HEART.  229 

She  little  knew  the  smile  which  beamed  so  brightly 

Was  caused  to  see  a  trusting  heart  deceived  ; 
Or  that  those  looks  of  love,  and  tones  endearing, 

Were  insincere, — she  listened,  and  believed ! 
And  when  to  her  in  low,  deep  voice  he  whispered 

He  ne'er  had  seen  a  face  he  deemed  more  fair, 
She  looked  up  in  his  eyes  with  gentle  trusting, 

And  dreamed  not  of  the  vile  deception  there. 

And  when  she  gazed  upon  his  brow  of  beauty, 

And  when  his  soft,  beguiling  voice  she  heard, 
Gone  was  her  love  for  household  song  and  pleasure  : 

She  found  no  joy  in  flower,  nor  book,  nor  bird, 
Save  when  the  flower  was  one  that  he  had  given 

At  eventide,  as  wandering  mid  the  grove — 
One  he  had  loved  and  praised  ; — or  when  the  Poem 

Was  some  sweet  song  resembling  her  own  love. 

But  when  at  last  he  spoke  of  only  friendship, 

We  marked  her  paling  cheek,  her  sudden  start ; 
And  then  she  tried  to  crush  each  tender  feeling, 

"  But  'twas  a  bitter  task — it  broke  her  heart." 
Her  voice  was  calm — I  wondered  at  its  calmness — 

As  to  his  heartless  sentence  she  replied  ; 
Her  brow  was  tranquil,  and  her  words  were  careless  : 

Ah !  who  may  know  the  depth  of  woman's  pride ! 

"  I  love  thee  as  a  sister  ;"  such  the  arrow 
Wreathed  o'er  with  roses.     What  a  mockery ! 

Ah !  well  he  knew  at  every  hour  of  meeting 
His  eyes  had  told  the  lover's  gentle  plea  : 


230  THE    BROKEN    HEART. 

But  what  cared  he  if  sorrow  gathered  o'er  her  ? 

If  sunny  eye  grew  dim,  and  cheek  turned  pale? 
What  cared  he  though  he  darkened  all  her  being  ? 

A  broken  heart  is  but  a  common  tale. 

Still  she  wreathed  chaplets  o'er  her  snowy  forehead, 

Still  mid  the  gay  was  bright,  and  gayest  there  ; 
None  marked  the  stifled  sigh,  the  pale  lip's  quiver, 

Though  in  her  bosom  lay  that  chill  despair  : 
To  him  all  proud  and  careless  was  her  greeting  ; 

She  summoned  to  her  aid  her  woman's  pride, 
And  tried  to  banish  every  sweet  remembrance, — 

But  'twas  in  vain — she  faded,  drooped,  and — died ! 

"  Oh !  tell  him  not" — this  was  her  last,  proud  pleading — 

"  With  secret  grief  my  life  had  grown  so  dim  ; 
Nor  let  him  know  my  heart  was  slowly  breaking 

With  all  its  weight  of  hopeless  love  for  him. 
Say,  in  the  festive  dance  my  step  was  lighted, 

That  I  was  wildest,  merriest  of  the  gay  ; 
Say  that  my  voice  ne'er  lost  its  tone  of  gladness, 

Nor  ever  let  him  dream  of  slow  decay. 

"  Ne'er  let  him  know  my  cheek  was  growing  whiter, — 

Say  that  some  pestilence  has  stopped  my  breath  : 
I  would  not  have  him  think  it  secret  sorrow, 

I  would  not  have  him  glory  in  my  death  : — 
He  must  not  know  that  in  the  haunted  midnight 

I  seemed  to  see  his  eyes  upon  me  beam 
With  love  once  more,  and  clasped  his  hands  all  fondly, 

Then  woke  to  weep  that  it  was  but  a  dream. 


THE   BROKEN   HEAET.  231 

•'  He  must  not  know  that  in  the  hush  of  twilight 

I  walked  our  old  familiar  paths  alone, 
To  sing  the  gentle  songs  he  praised  so  often, 

And  dreamed  his  voice  was  blending  with  my  own. 
Oh !  tell  him  not  of  all  my  bitter  weeping, 

Nor  how  that  always  he  was  unforgot ; 
Nor  how  I  kissed  his  letters,  even  in  dying  : — 

Say  what  you  will — but  say  I  loved  him  not !  " 

The  sun  was  sinking  o'er  the  western  valleys — 

Her  life  was  sinking  with  his  parting  ray  ; 
We  watched  each  fading  hue  with  heart  of  anguish, 

We  knew  her  sun  would  set  at  close  of  day. 
And  as  his  light  was  growing  dim,  and  dimmer — 

With  mingled  words  of  tenderness  and  pride 
Her  voice  grew  feebler  in  the  coming  darkness, 

And  just  at  sunset,  she — our  darling — died  ! 

A  moonbeam  stole  in  at  the  open  window 

To  kiss  her  brow — 'twas  paler  than  its  light ; 
Her  hands  were  folded  by  its  gentle  lustre  ; 

Her  form  was  decked  in  robes  of  spotless  white. 
We  lightly  smoothed  the  soft  and  silken  tresses 

That  fell  about  the  face  in  graceful  wave  ; 
And  by  the  starlight  soft,  we  clipped  one  ringlet, — 

Those  stars  are  shining  now  upon  her  grave. 


VERSES. 

RAVE  on,  them  restless  river ! 

Lash  wildly  on  the  shore ! 
i  love  to  list  thy  anguish, 

Thy  shriek,  thy  angry  roar  ! 
Rave  on  !  thy  maddened  waters 

Are  like  my  troubled  heart  ; 
The  beating  of  each  wild  wave 

Seems  of  my  soul  a  part. 

The  loud  storm  and  the  tempest 

Bring  strange  delight  to  me  ; 
To  hear  the  mad  waves  shrieking 

Upon  the  stormy  sea  : 
To  see  the  lightning  dancing, 

To  hear  the  thunder's  roar  ; 
And  watch  the  billows  breaking 

Upon  a  rock-bound  shore. 

I  glory  in  the  tempest ! 

I  hate  a  quiet  night ! 
I  love  to  see  the  heavens 

One  vivid  sheet  of  light ! 
Oh  !  there's  joy  in  the  raving 

Of  a  storm  upon  the  sea  ! 
And  I'd  glory  in  its  warring, 

Though  it  brought  death  to  me  ! 

(232)  ' 


"AWEARY." 

I  KNOW  that  soon  this  pulse  of  mine, 

Which  wildly  beats,  will  beat  no  more  ; 
That  soon  this  strange,  mysterious  heart 

Be  still — its  wondrous  workings  o'er. 
Upon  a  throbless,  quiet  breast, 

These  hands  will  calmly,  coldly  lie  ; 
These  lips  refuse  to  move  again  ; — 

Ah  !  yes  :  I  know  that  I  must  die. 

Kind  hands  will  fold  my  weary  limbs 

In  still  and  statue-like  repose  ; 
The  tolling  bell  proclaim  to  all 

My  soul's  release  from  earthly  woes. 
Some  there  may  be  who'll  wildly  weep 

Above  my  grave  when  none  are  by  ; 
But  I — the  thought  is  passing  sweet, 

To  know  that  I  so  soon  must  die. 

I'm  weary  of  this  weary  world, 

I'm  weary  of  its  pleasures  vain  ; 
I'm  weary  of  this  aching  heart, 

Which  broods  above  its  silent  pain  ; 
I'm  weary  of  false  friendship's  vow, 

Cold,  heartless  age — deceitful  youth  ; 
I  long  for  wings,  that  I  may  fly 

To  yon  bright  realm  where  all  is  Truth. 

(233) 


RETROSPECTION. 

I  LOVE  the  calm,  sequestered  woods, 

Where  not  a  sound  is  heard 
But  the  soft,  plaintive  melody 

Of  some  sweet,  wandering  bird. 
The  wind  is  murmuring  through  the  pines 

Its  carol  low  and  sweet  ; 
And  haunting  voices  in  my  ear 

The  vows  of  old  repeat. 

Where  are  the  many  fantasies 

Once  mine  in  earlier  youth  ? 
Where  are  the  garlands  fancy  wove  ? 

Discolored  all  by  truth. 
But  pictures  still  are  in  my  heart, 

Which  memory's  pencil  drew  ; 
They  cannot  fade  by  Time's  cold  touch, 

Too  sombre  is  their  hue. 

I  once  could  sit  me  idly  down 

Beside  some  rippling  rill, 
And  dream  sweet  dreams  of  future  bliss  ; 

Alas !  they  haunt  me  still. 
There  come  back,  as  in  mockery, 

A  pair  of  soft  blue  eyes  ; 
And  then,  as  if  by  magic  wand, 

A  thousand  phantoms  rise. 

(234) 


RETROSPECTION.  235 

I  see  in  memory's  faithful  glass 

That  moss-grown  cot  once  more  ; 
The  jasmine  o'er  the  trellis  twined, 

The  woodbine  at  the  door. 
And  once  again  that  prophecy 

Falls  sadly  on  my  ear  : 
"  Maiden,  the  frequent  sigh  is  thine, 

And  thine  the  falling  tear." 

I've  lived  to  see  joy's  meteors  sink 

In  darkness,  one  by  one  ; 
I've  lived  to  see  each  rose  of  hope 

Fade  ere  the  setting  sun  : 
I've  lived  to  see  the  friends  I  loved 

To  quiet  graveyards  borne  ; 
Some  lie  entombed — some  have  forgot — 

And  I — am  all  alone  ! 

If  thou  hast  watched  thy  dearest  one 

Sink  to  the  dreamless  sleep, 
Plant  flowers  above  the  early  tomb, 

But  do  not  wildly  weep  ; 
For  oh !  thy  lot  is  happiness 

If  love  is  still  unchanged, — 
Better  weep  o'er  a  lowly  grave 

Than  mourn  a  heart  estranged  ! 

Oh !  this  is  deepest  misery, 

To  worship  day  by  day 
Some  idol,  once  deemed  angel-like, 

And  find  it  common  clay  ! 


236  RETROSPECTION. 

I  weep  not  for  the  early  dead, 
When  I  their  tombstones  see  ; 

I  weep  for  those — the  loved  and  lost, 
Who  live,  but  love  not  me ! 

I  meet  the  careless  and  the  cold, 

I  too  seem  careless,  cold  • 
And  imitate  the  heartless  young, 

Smile  with  the  worthless  old  : 
And  they  may  think  my  heart  is  gay, 

Because  my  smiles  are  bright ; 
But  smiling  lip  and  sparkling  eye 

May  hide  an  inward  blight. 

The  festive  dress  a  mockery  seems  ; 

I  loathe  the  glittering  wreath  ; 
I  hate  the  jewels  on  my  brow, 

And  sigh  in  vain  for  death. 
No  star  for  me  with  radiance  bright 

Illumes  the  darkened  sky  ; 
I'm  weary  of  this  weary  world, — 

0  God  !  that  I  could  die ! 


MILLER'S  GRAVE. 

(WRITTEN  ON  VISITING  THE  TOMB  OF  GEORGIA'S  LAMENTED 
SON,  HON.  ANDREW  J.  MILLER.) 

HERE  let  me  pause  with  reverential  air, 

Beside  the  tomb  that  holds  his  sacred  dust ; 
And  sadly  read  upon  the  tablet  fair, 

The  name  of  him,  the  good,  the  brave,  the  just ! 
This  is  not  all  to  tell  of  him  who  sleeps, 

Although  beside  it  bitter  tear-drops  start ; 
For  many  a  soul  his  treasured  memory  keeps, 

And  he  left  monuments  in  every  heart. 

'Tis  well,  bright  sinking  Sun,  that  thou  shouldst  shed 

Thy  latest  ray  upon  this  hallowed  spot  ; 
And  gild  the  tablet  o'er  the  illustrious  dead, 

Who  although  passed  away  is  unforgot. 
A  voice,  though  speechless,  hath  this  work  of  art, 

Nor  tells  it  simply  that  he  lived  and  died  ; 
It  speaks  in  trumpet  tones  to  every  heart : 

"  I  mark  the  resting-place  of  Georgia's  pride." 

And  can  it  be  that  Miller's  work  is  done  ? 

Shall  listening  Senates  hear  his  voice  no  more  ? 
Yes  :  we  have  marked  the  setting  of  his  sun, 

The  life  so  gloriously  bright  is  o'er. 
And  he  hath  slept  for  months  in  this  cold  bed, 

With  heart  all  throbless,  cheek  all  pale  and  chill ; 
Yet  Georgia — Rachel-like — mourns  for  her  dead, 

Who  lies  beneath  this  tomb  so  cold  and  still. 

(237) 


238  MILLER'S  GRAVE. 

The  dust  has  settled  on  that  glorious  brow  ; 

The  voice  that  ever  soothed  another's  woes 
Is  silent ;  and  the  arms  once  mighty,  now 

Lie  folded  calmly  in  death's  strange  repose. 
No  more  he'll  grace  our  legislative  hall, 

No  more  will  battle  bravely  for  the  right ; 
He  lieth  where  there's  darkness  over  all, 

And  sleeps  the  dreamless  sleep  in  death's  long  night. 

In  all  the  brightness  of  a  noonday  sun 

Earth  pillowed  him  upon  her  chilling  breast, 
In  vain  we  wept  our  hero's  work  was  done, 

We  now  pay  tributes  to  his  place  of  rest. 
In  life  he  was  our  pride  ;  in  death  is  now 

The  proudest  boast  kind  nature  to  us  gave. 
The  brightest  laurel  on  Augusta's  brow 

Is  found  in  yonder  churchyard — Miller's  grave! 

The  poor  will  ne'er  forget  him — oft  they'll  bend 

O'er  Miller's  tomb  with  hearts  of  gratitude  ; 
The  suffering  ever  found  in  him  a  friend, 

And  with  their  tears  his  grave  shall  be  bedewed ; 
Though  every  lip  that  learns  to  lisp  his  name 

Shall  find  a  magic  in  the  simple  word  ; 
Yet  one  such  tear  is  higher  meed  of  fame 

Than  all  that  marble  tells,  or  men  record. 

'Tis  Miller's  grave — step  softly,  lightly  here, 
Where  flowers  blossom  and  the  ivy  creeps  ; 

Let  no  unworthy,  sinful  thought  appear, — 

'Tis  hallowed  ground  where  the  pure  patriot  sleeps. 


MILLEK'S  GRAVE.  239 

Come,  point  your  children  to  the  quiet  place, 
Where  lone  he  slumbers  ;  for  in  truth  you  can 

Mark  out  his  path  for  their  young  feet  to  trace, 
And  say  to  them  with  pride,  this  was  a  Man, 

'Tis  Miller's  grave — methinks  the  evening  air 

Is  purer  here  about  his  sacred  mound, 
The  moonbeams  softer,  and  the  flowers  more  fair, 

The  sunbeams  brighter, — for  'tis  hallowed  ground  ; 
Strangers  will  linger  near  this  pure  white  stone, 

With  reverence  deep,  where  sleeps  the  good,  the 

brave, 
To  bless  the  memory  of  him  that's  gone, 

And  shed  a  heartfelt  tear  on  Miller's  grave. 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 

WHERE  dwellest  them,  my  young  heart's  chosen  one  ? 
What  glorious  star  can  claim  thee  as  its  own  ? 
If  it  be  true  that  when  the  spirit  flies 
Prom  earth,  it  nestles  in  those  starlit  skies. 
What  orb  is  brightened  by  thy  radiant  face  ? 
Methinks  in  yonder  evening  star  I  trace 
The  light  which  circled  o'er  the  brow  I  love, 
And  fixed  my  wayward  heart  on  things  above. 

Though  this  is  fancy,  passing  sweet's  the  dream 

That  when  the  stars  of  heaven  above  me  beam, 

I've  but  to  raise  my  glances  to  the  skies, 

And  see  the  sparkle  of  thy  love-lit  eyes. 

Much  better  than  the  day  I'll  love  the  night, 

For  when  yon  lamp  of  heaven  is  burning  bright, 

I'll  fancy  I  can  see  thy  spirit's  home, 

And  hear  thee  whisper  low  :  "  Come,  loved  one !  come." 

Sweet  evening  star  !  brighter  than  all  the  rest, 
Thou  art  the  star  my  infancy  loved  best ; 
And  still  the  fancy  dream  my  bosom  swells, 
That  there  with  thee  my  loved  one's  spirit  dwells. 
I'll  clasp  the  dear  delusion  to  my  breast, 
That  it  may  quell  this  wild  and  vague  unrest ; 
And  though  from  native  land  I  wander  far, 
I'll  turn  to  thee  with  love,  bright  evening  star ! 

(240) 


"THE  APPROACHING  FOOTSTEP." 

SUGGESTED    BY    AN   OLD   PICTURE. 

LIGHT  feet  tripping-  o'er  the  daisies, 

Bonnet  swung  upon  her  arm  ; 
Singing  like  a  wee  wild  birdie, 

Dreaming  not  of  fear  nor  harm. 
For  she  knows  good  fairies  guide  her, 

And  she  goes  to  meet  her  love 
Down  in  yonder  lonesome  valley, 

Ere  the  stars  are  lit  above. 

Dancing  lightly  o'er  the  daisies, 

Stooping  now  to  pluck  a  flower 
Fair  as  she,  who  thus  is  dreaming 

In  love's  first  delicious  hour. 
How  her  heart  is  wildly  beating 

As  she  gayly  trips  along, 
Catching  up  the  wild  bird's  echo, 

Chanting  many  a  sweet  old  song. 

Now  the  "  trysting-place  "  she  seeketh, 

Deep  within  yon  shaded  dell  ; 
There  he  told  her  that  he  loved  her, 

And  he  bade  her  guess  how  well. 
There  the  tall  sweet-scented  bay-trees, 

High  above  the  willows  loom  ; 
There  the  first  blue  violet  opens, 

There  the  white  wild  lilies  bloom. 

(241) 


242  "'THE  APPKOACHING  FOOTSTEP." 

Now  she  seats  herself — around  her 

Flowers  wave,  and  birds  sing  free  ; 
At  her  feet  a  rippling  streamlet 

Soothes  her  with  its  melody. 
Softly  there  the  wild-winged  zephyr 

Sways  the  yellow  jasmine  vines  ; 
And  while  floating  onward  maketh* 

Low  sad  music  in  the  pines. 

Now  the  anxious  thoughts  within  her 

Move  her  breast  with  gentle  swell  ;— 
She  is  watching — she  is  listing 

For  that  footfall  loved  so  well. 
Hist ! — a  sound  disturbs  the  silence, 

Nervously  her  bosom  heaves — 
Now  he  's  coming  ! — no  ;  'tis  yonder 

Squirrel  hopping  through  the  leaves. 

Twilight  shadows  are  descending 

Like  a  veil  upon  the  world  ; 
Stiller  grows  the  silence  round  her — 

Eve  her  curtain  has  unfurled. 
Still  he  comes  not — and  a  shadow 

Gathers  slowly  on  her  brow  ; 
Plaintively  the  sad  heart  asketh, 

Half  in  fear,  "  Oh  !  where  art  thou  ?" 

Something  now  disturbs  the  vine  leaves — 
He  is  coming — yes  ;  'tis  he  ! — 

No  :  vain  hope  ! — 'twas  but  yon  wild  bird 
Moving  restless  011  the  tree. 


"THE  APPROACHING  FOOTSTEP."  243 

How  the  heart  sinks  in  her  bosom  ; 

Hope  gives  place  to  anxious  fear — 
"  Oh  !  why  comes  he  not  ? — he  promised 

He  at  eve  would  meet  me  here. 

"  Still  he  stays — perhaps  another. 

Fairer  one  has  won  his  love  ; 
Once  he  vowed  my  eyes  were  brighter 

Than  the  stars  which  burn  above. 
But  the  gipsy  said  last  evening, 

That  my  loved  one  still  was  true  : 
Night  is  coming  ! — night  is  coming  ! — 

Stars  are  up — oh  !  where  are  you  ?" 

Darker  grew  the  shadows  round  her, 

Sadder  sang  the  rippling  rill  • 
And  the  moon  came  out  in  beauty, 

Sitting  on  the  lonely  hill  : 
"  Was  ;t  for  this  I  careful  braided 

Every  soft  and  silken  tress 
O'er  the  brow  he  praised  so  often 

For  its  simple  loveliness  ? 

"  Twined  sweet  roses  o'er  my  forehead, 

Plaited  garlands  in  my  hair, 
That  to  him  I  might  seem  lovely, 

That  he  still  might  call  me  fair  ? 
Was 't  for  this  I  strayed  so  stealthy 

From  those  loving  ones  at  home  ? 
I  ne'er  dreamed  he  would  deceive  me  : 

Loved  one,  come — I  pray  thee,  come ! 


244  "THE  APPROACHING  FOOTSTEP." 

"  Or  perhaps  his  purse-proud  father 

Scorns  the  simple  country  maid  ; 
And  would  have  him  wed  another — 

Ne'er  before  he  thus  had  stayed. 
They  would  chill  each  warm  emotion, 

Win  him -from  the  love  of  old — 
Sneer  him  from  his  fond  devotion, 

Wed  his  youthful  heart  to  gold." 

Even  now  the  step  is  coming, 

Mark  the  mingled  love  and  pride  ; 
And  her  joy,  told  by  warm  blushes, 

Vainly  she  may  strive  to  hide  ; 
How  her  heart  with  love  is  beating, 

As  she  hears  him  coming  near — 
Every  footfall,  eager,  anxious, 

Telling  that  she  still  is  dear. 

Hear  his  voice — "  My  loved  one,  cheer  thee  ; 

I  have  conquered  all  his  pride, 
And  my  father  waits  to  welcome 

Thee,  my  own  fair,  chosen  bride." 
Now  her  hand  his  own  is  clasping, 

Moonbeams  glisten  cold  and  pale  ; 
And  the  streamlet  stops  to  listen 

To  love's  old  but  pleasant  tale. 


PARTING. 

"  One  word  with  thee,  though  not  of  hope  or  gladness, 
On  which  to  muse  when  we  are  far  apart ; 

A  whisper  breathed  in  silence  and  in  sadness, 
To  leave  a  hush  forever  on  my  heart ! 

One  word  to  treasure  in  my  bosom-core, 

Whether  we  meet  again,  or  meet  no  more. " 

WELBY. 

AND  shall  I  hear  once  more  thy  voice  of  music  ? 

And  shall  I  see  thy  gentle  face  again  ? 
Catch  the  soft  murmur  of  thy  whispered  greeting, 

The  low,  sweet  prelude  to  a  deeper  strain  ? 
It  is  too  much — my  heart-strings  wildly  nutter, 

Like  leaflet  stirred  by  the  wild  southern  breeze  ; 
For  oh  !  thou  comest  to  breathe  a  farewell  only ; 

And  soon  the  music  of  the  autumn  leaves 
Wilt  tell  me,  in  my  dwelling,  dark  and  lonely, 
That  thou  art  gone ! 

Friend  of  my  brighter  days !  my  more  than  brother  ! 

Sharer  in  all  my  little  joys  and  cares ! 
Oh !  can  it  be  that  thou  and  I  must  sever, 

To  meet  no  more  for  long  and  weary  years  ? 
It  were  so  sweet  to  have  thee  ever  near  me, 

When  I  impulsive  err  to  gently  chide  ; 
But  soon  between  us  mountains  high  shall  tower, 

And  winding  rivers  gently,  calmly  glide  ; 
Yea,  soon  the  waves  of  time  be  proudly  bearing 
Thee  from  my  side. 

(245) 


240  I'AKTIXft. 

For  years  thy  love  has  been  my  inspiration  ; 

To  win  thy  praise  has  been  my  highest  aim  ; 
To  hear  thy  gentle  words  of  sweet  approval, 

Has  been  the  all  I  sought  of  earthly  fame. 
When  with  the  gush  of  song  my  lute-strings  quivered, 

Lending  a  faint  flush  to  my  pallid  cheek  ; 
'Twas  bliss  to  have  thy  calm  eyes  bending  o'er  me, 

Telling  the  love  thou  did'st  not  dare  to  speak  ; 
To  feel  within  the  deep  cells  of  my  spirit, 
Thy  heart  my  own ! 

No  stormy  feeling  gave  our  eyes  their  lustre, 

Ours  was  a  deeper,  calmer,  holier  love  ; 
So  pure,  it  scarcely  raised  a  blush  to  own  it, 

So  like  to  that  the  angels  feel  above. 
No  short-lived  passion  bade  thee  seek  my  presence, 

That  wild,  mad  fever-dream  of  heart  and  brain  ; 
So  calm  and  quiet  were  our  hearts  united, 

To  nurse  devotion  scarcely  caused  us  pain  ; 
So  free  was  our  sweet  love  from  earthly  shortness, 
And  earthly  stain. 

For,  looking  calmly  up  to  yon  fair  heaven, 

We  felt  that  we  would  meet  and  mingle  there  ; 
And  living  in  the  hope  of  such  reunion  ; 

Our  hearts  felt  not  the  weight  of  dull  despair. 
We  knew  that  we  on  earth  must  e'er  be  parted, 

The  future  promised  naught  for  love  like  ours  ; 
For  fell  disease  had  marked  thee  as  its  victim, 

And  robbed  thy  pathway  of  its  brightest  flowers — 
But  faith  told  of  a  meeting  in  that  Eden, 
Whore  Death  is  not ! 


PARTING.  247 

But  now  we  meet,  to  part  perchance  forever — 

Thy  hand  may  touch  mine  once — then  never  more. 
It  gives  no  pang !  the  dream  that  we  together 

Should  walk  through  life  as  one,  has  long  been  o'er ' 
One  winter  evening  when  the  stars  were  trembling — 

Pale,  weeping  watchers,  love,  like  thou  and  I — 
We  watched  the  death-throes  of  that  early  love-dream, 

And  wept  above  it  till  we  saw  it  die  : 
Then  buried  it — our  breaking  hearts  the  graveyard  ! 
When  none  was  by. 

We  parted  then — thou  to  thy  quiet  duties, 

I,  to  the  world,  where  mirth  oblivion  lends — 
We  calmly  met,  as  though  we  ne'er  had  parted, 

And  those  who  saw  us  said  we  were  but  friends. 
The  idle  ones  who  caught  our  words  of  welcome, 

Thy  stately  greeting,  and  my  quiet  pride, 
Might  never  guess  the  drama  late  enacted  ; 

That  hope  for  us  had  budded,  withered,  died  : — 
Our  hearts  too  well  were  schooled,  to  show  emotion 
When  side  by  side. 

And  did  our  love-dream  die  on  that  dark  evening 

Say,  dear  one,  was  it  really  love  that  died  ? 
Nay,  nay  ;  'twas  but  our  feeble  hope  that  perished, 

And  left  affection  chastened,  purified. 
Love  cannot  die — an  angel  gift,  it  lingers 

Within  the  heart,  though  all — all  else  be  dead  ; 
As  heavenly  music  round  the  harp  still  hovers, 

Although  the  hand  that  swept  its  strings  has  fled  : 
And  yields  a  broken  chime  when  fond  remembrance 
Awakes  the  past. 


248  PARTING. 

True  love  is  deathless,  like  that  unseen  spirit 

Which  lives  when  from  its  earthly  household  riven  ; 
It  breathes  on  through  a  still  dream-like  existence, 

And  like  that  spirit,  too,  its  home  is  heaven  : 
Then  sigh  not,  weep  thou  not  1  a  calm  enjoyment 

Awaits  us  yet,  within  that  brighter  sphere  ; 
That  land  where  all  is  love,  where  pain  and  sadness 

Shall,  like  the  mists  of  morning,  disappear  : 
And  feeling  this — without  one  tear  of  parting — 
I'll  give  thee  up  ! 

But  come  once  more  !  once,  ere  we  part  forever  ! 

Clasp  thou  my  yielding  hand  within  thine  own  ; 
One  glance  of  thy  calm  eyes — one  word  of  parting  ! 

To  cherish  in  my  heart  when  thou  art  gone. 
One  long,  sweet  talk,  like  those  we  held  together 

When  our  young  hearts  no  throb  of  sorrow  knew  ! 
Those  dreaming  hours,  when,  happy  to  be  near  thee, 

I  saw  my  heaven  in  thine  eyes  of  blue. 
One  hour  !  to  feel  thy  fond  heart  wildly  beating, 
With  pulse  so  true ! 

I  do  not  fear  that  thou  wilt  e'er  forget  me, 

Our  love  hath  stood  the  fiery  tests  of  time  ; 
My  face  will  haunt  thee  when  the  twilight  gathers 

Around  thee  in  that  drear  and  distant  clime. 
Fond  memory  will  unite  our  spirits  always 

Fate  smote  us  early  with  her  poisoned  dart ; 
The  arrow  missed  its  aim,  although  it  reached  us, 

And  only  broke  the  hearts  it  could  not  part. 


PARTING.  249 

How  could  the  hearts  be  parted  that  were  one,  love, 
And  Heaven's  the  hand  that  joined  them  long  ago  : — 

But  time  is  gliding-  swiftly — we  must  sever 

To  lengthen  our  farewell,  ah !  this  is  woe ! 

One  look !  one  last  sweet  smile  !  one  word  of  parting! — 
Go  !  loved  one,  go  ! 


THE    PAST. 

BACK  to  your  caves  again, 

Dreams  of  the  buried  past ! 
And  nevermore  on  me 

Your  gloomy  shadows  cast. 
A  gulf  is  fixed  between 

Such  memories  and  me, — 
A  gulf  all  wide  and  deep, 

And  I — I  will  be  free. 

Stir  not,  0  clay-cold  corpse, 

The  stone  is  on  your  grave, 
I  am  released  at  last, 

So  long,  so  long  a  slave. 
And  yet,  0  dream  of  mine, 

Dream  beautiful,  but  fled  ! 
Sometimes  at  midnight  hour 

I  weep  that  thou  art  dead. 

'Twas  night — there  was  no  moon, 

And  no  one  else  was  by  ; 
With  calm  and  tearless  face, 

I  watched  and  saw  ye  die. 
Beside  a  hearthstone  cold, 

With  ashes  covered  o'er  ; 
I  counted  your  quick  gasps, 

And  knew  you'd  smile  no  more. 

(250) 


THE   PAST.  251 

I  heard  your  last  deep  sob, 

Your  faint  and  quivering  breath  ; 
And  smiled  to  see  that  thou 

Wert  beautiful  in  death. 
I  smoothed  your  rigid  limbs, 

Arranged  each  shining  tress  ; 
And  kissed  your  still  white  lips 

With  yearning  tenderness. 

I  tried  to  turn  away 

In  calm  and  quiet  pride  ; 
Some  lingering  weakness  yet 

Detained  me  at  your  side. 
I  closed  your  earnest  eyes, 

And  then,  in  sudden  pain, 
And  with  a  gush  of  love, 

I  kissed  your  lips  again. 

One  hour  on  me  had  done 

The  work  of  many  years, 
And  yet  my  faee  was  still, — 

A  grief  too  deep  for  tears 
Had  hushed  each  gasping  sob — 

But  why,  oh  !  why  again, 
Recall  from  its  cold  tomb 

That  long,  long  night  of  pain  ? 


THE  ROSE  AND  THE  LAUREL. 

"  How  valueless  seems  the  envied  laurel  beside  the  dying  rose." 

BULWER. 

NIGHT  in  the  princely  dwelling — hushed  and  still 

The  sounds  of  busy  life.     The  star-beams  bright 
Pour  through  the  open  windows,  and  illume 

Each  lonely  chamber  with  mysterious  light. 
Soft  silken  curtains  rustle  in  the  breeze, 

And  light-winged  zephyrs  summer  leaflets  stir, 
Calling  their  rich  delicious  fragrance  forth, 

But  not  for  her — ah  !  iievermore  for  her  ! 

The  violet  nestles  in  its  hood  of  green, 

The  white  pink  sinks  in  slumber  light  and  soft  ; 
And  still,  as  to  its  worshipped  idol  turned, 

The  faithful  sun-flower  rears  its  head  aloft. 
The  rose  has  gathered  its  fair  petals  close, 

To  meet  the  dew  so  gently  o'er  them  shed  ; 
Just  as  her  young  heart  folded  iip  its  leaves, 

When  night  and  storm  raged  wildly  overhead. 

The  mocking-bird  with  many  a  changing  note, 

Trills  his  sad  song  upon  the  summer  air 
So  mournfully,  you'd  dream  he  had  no  mate, 

For  in  his  midnight  chant  there  breathes  despair. 
Poor  bird  !  hast  thou,  like  weary  mortals,  learned 

That  love  brings  less  of  joy  than  fevered  pain  ? 
Thy  song  hath  such  a  bitter  wailing  caught, 

I'd  almost  fancy  thou  hadst  loved  in  vain. 

(252) 


THE   ROSE    AND    THE    LAUREL.  253 

Say,  feathered  minstrel !  didst  thou  ever  turn 

To  some  bright  song-bird  of  the  sunny  dell  ? 
And  didst  thou  sing  to  her  on  starlit  eves 

The  thoughts  that  in  thy  little  bosom  swell  ? 
Say,  was  she  faithless  to  thy  murmured  love  ? 

Turned  she  in  cold  indifference  away  ? 
Or  did  some  cruel  arrow  find  her  breast, 

And  make  so  dark  for  thee  life's  little  day  ? 

If  not  for  thine  own  griefs,  for  others  weep — 

In  yonder  mansion  there  are  human  woes  ; 
A  worthless  thing  the  envied  laurel  seems, 

And  valueless  beside  the  dying  rose. 
Perch  lightly  on  the  window-shutter,  bird, 

But  blend  no  gay  notes  in  thy  little  air  ; — 
Oh  !  let  thy  lonely  midnight  song  gush  forth 

In  pitying  tenderness— -for  death  is  there  ! 

How  calm  and  still ! — no  sound  of  revelry 

Disturbs  the  solemn  silence — late  those  halls 
Rang  high  with  mirth  and  music — now  alone 

Upon  the  else  unbroken  stillness,  falls 
The  muffled  tread — the  swiftly  hurrying  feet 

Of  those  who  gather  round  to  see  her  die — 
The  murmuring  music  of  the  plaintive  breeze, 

The  stifled  sob — the  low,  half-broken  sigh. 

Upon  a  low,  white  couch,  whose  graceful  folds 
Of  silken  drapery  sweep  the  polished  floor, 

Like  some  fair,  fading  rose,  the  lady  lies 

Dreaming  of  childhood's  happiness  once  more  ; 


254         THE  ROSE  AND  THE  LAUREL. 

Murmuring  in  broken  words  of  blissful  hours, 
When  she  was  all  the  world  to  him  she  loved  ; 

When  through  the  heart  that  throbbed  for  only  her, 
Ambition's  fearful  storm  had  never  moved. 

How  beautiful  she  is  ! — her  golden  curls 

Float  like  a  halo  round  her  forehead  fair 
Where  the  blue  veins  course  underneath  the  skin — 

A  few  white  buds  are  in  her  shining  hair. 
One  sculptured  arm,  like  Parian  marble  white, 

About  her  head  is  thrown — the  other  lies 
Upon  the  snowy  sheet — pale  is  her  cheek, 

And  closed,  as  if  in  pain,  her  violet  eyes. 

The  moonbeams  fall  upon  her  faded  face, 

And  light  with  richer  hue  her  clustering  hair  ; 
The  stars  look  down  upon  her  pityingly — 

Her  parted  lips  are  moving  as  in  prayer. 
And  now  her  eyes  unclose — they  seek  his  own, 

He  who  bends  over  her  with  fond  caress  ; 
Who  feels  that  if  the  grave  must  hide  that  face, 

The  whole  wide  world  to  him  is  valueless. 

But  Fame  had  been  his  god — for  it  he  turned 

Aside  from  home,  and  all  its  calm  delight ; 
Spurning,  as  mean  and  worthless,  little  joys, 

He  struggled  up  Ambition's  giddy  height : 
The  world  had  won  him — its  deceitful  voice 

Had  lured  him  on — its  praise  was  all  he  sought ; 
And  now  the  laurel  garlanded  his  brow  ; — 

But  by  how  dear  a  price  the  wroath  was  bought ! 


THE   ROSE   AND   THE   LAUREL.  255 

His  noble  form  had  graced  the  senate's  hall, 

His  voice  of  eloquence  had  swayed  the  crowd  ; 
His  inborn  genius  awed  the  listening  throng, 

And  now  a  conquered  world  before  him  bowed. 
Brave  men  knelt  to  his  worth — fair  women  smiled 

When  he  approached — admiring  thousands  hung 
Spell-bound,  enraptured  by  the  magic  words 

Of  burning  eloquence  upon  his  tongue. 

Was  it  for  this  that  he  had  yielded  up 

His  all  of  happiness — that  faithful  love, 
The  only  flower  left  in  an  earthly  bed 

Akin  to  those  that  blossom  up  above  ? 
And  had  he  crushed  affection's  tender  buds, 

For  Fame's  high  pomp — its  glittering  pageantry  ? 
Alas  !  proud  man  !  thou  yet  shalt  live  to  learn 

That  one  fond  heart  worth  all  the  world  to  thee. 

To  win  the  laurel  he  had  left  the  rose, 

That  rose,  the  heart  he  won  in  boyhood's  hour  ; 
Nor  knew  he  that  remorseful  bitterness, 

Would  prove  how  dearer  far  the  humble  flower. 
To  win  the  world's  applause — its  empty  fame, 

He  sternly  cast  his  early  love  aside  ; 
Poor  flower  ! — it  faded  slowly  from  neglect, 

And  in  its  loneliness,  it  pined  and  died ! 

List!  'tis  the  clock  strikes  twelve  ! — how  fearful  sounds 
That  little  throb  from  the  big  heart  of  Time  ! 

And  now  the  mocking-bird,  silent  before, 
Trills  his  lone  lay,  as  if  to  form  a  chime. 


256          THE  ROSE  AND  THE  LAUREL. 

All  still  and  cold  and  pale  the  lady  lies, 

What  wonder  she  in  dreamless  slumber  sleeps  ; 

And  o'er  the  hands,  locked  in  a  mute  embrace, 

The  strong  man  bows  his  head  and  weeps,  aye,  weeps. 

Years  pass — amid  the  mighty  ones  of  earth 

That  proud  man  stands — how  cold  and  stern  his  brow  ! 
As  though  he  hated  even  his  fame,  and  yet 

The  world's  applause  is  all  that's  left  him  noiv. 
In  vain  for  him  the  trumpet  sounds  its  burst ; 

In  vain  for  him  may  beauty's  ringlets  wave  ; 
In  vain  for  him  may  sweet-lipped  maidens  sing — 

His  all  of  heart  lies  in  one  little  grave  ! 

He  stands  before  the  idolizing  crowd  ; 

He  hears  the  praise  Mice  to  his  ears  so  sweet ; 
But  'tis  with  stern  indifference  he  feels 

That  conquered  Fame  lies  prostrate  at  his  feet. 
And  oh  !  when  in  proud  loneliness,  he  turns 

To  snatch  a  few  brief  moments  of  repose, 
These  words  ring  through  his  heart :  "  How  valueless 

The  envied  laurel  by  the  dying  rose  !" 


SUDDEN   DEATH. 

"  LEAVE  me  alone,  for  I  would  dream  of  heaven, 

That  pure  bright  clime  where  heart-aches  all  are  o'er  ; 
Where  they,  who  here  by  iron  hands  are  riven, 

Shall  reunite  to  sever  nevermore. 
Leave  me  alone  at  this  sweet  sunset  hour, 

When  loveliness  to  all  the  earth  is  given, 
When  perfume  floats  from  every  fragile  flower, 

I'd  be  alone — oh  !  let  me  dream  of  heaven. 

"  Speak  not  to  me — I  could  not  bear  to  hear 

A  careless  tone,  a  word  or  smile  of  mirth  ; 
Even  thy  sweet  voice  is  discord  in  my  ear, 

And  brings  my  musings  back  again  to  earth. 
I'm  weary  of  this  world — too  soon  my  flowers 

The  serpent  found,  and  blighted  all  their  bloom, 
Dimming  the  brightness  of  youth's  sunny  hours, 

And  filling  all  my  heart  with  shadowy  gloom. 

"  Yet  ne'er  before  did  earth  so  glorious  seem  ; 

The  flowers  have  a  lovelier,  rarer  hue  ; 
The  sunset,  too,  hath  caught  a  richer  gleam, 

And  yon  far  mountain  looks  more  brightly  blue. 
The  breezes  fan  more  gently  my  wan  brow, 

And  to  the  stream  is  sweeter  music  given — 
Why  seemeth  all  things  lovelier  to  me  now  ? 

They  fade — 'tis  earth  no  longer — this  is  heaven." 

(257) 


258  SUDDEN    DEATH. 

She  ceased — and  in  the  liquid,  violet  eyes, 

There  came  a  look  unnatural,  shadowy,  strange  ; 
Her  cheek  grew  pale  as  moonlight  when  it  dies, 

And  o'er  the  features  passed  a  sudden  change. 
The  stars  on  golden  thrones  had  each  its  place, 

And  calm  and  quiet  was  the  cloudless  even  • 
A  smile  still  lingered  on  the  lovely  face — 

The  broken  heart  had  passed  from  earth  to  heaven. 


GLITTER. 

GLITTER,  glitter,  little  star  ! 
In  yon  azure  heaven  afar  ; 
Tell  me  there's  a  brighter  sphere, 
Where  earth's  shadows  disappear  ; 
Whisper  to  my  wayward  heart 
That  its  grief  shall  there  depart ; 
Glitter  in  the  midnight  sky  ! 
Bid  me  lift  my  thoughts  on  high  ! 

Sparkle,  sparkle,  little  star  ! 
In  the  night's  triumphal  car  ; 
Tell  of  Him  who  made  thee  bright, 
To  illume  the  darkest  night ; 
Tell  of  Him  whose  wondrous  love 
Hung  thee  in  the  heavens  above, 
That  while  mortals  viewed  thee  there, 
They  might  lift  their  souls  in  prayer. 

Glisten,  glisten,  little  star  ! 
Naught  thy  glory  e'er  can  mar, 
Till  He  banishes  the  night, 
Till  He  bids  thee  cease  thy  light. 
Twinkle  in  thy  midnight  home  ! 
Bid  the  earth-worn  spirits  come, 
Where  no  cloud  may  e'er  arise 
In  those  blue,  those  boundless  skies  ! 

(259) 


260  GLITTER. 

Glitter,  glitter,  little  star  ! 
In  yon  azure  heaven  afar  ; 
Brightest  jewel  on  night's  brow, 
Heavenly  mission  too  hast  thou. 
When  the  soul  of  man  grows  dark, 
He  can  see  the  feeble  spark 
Of  that  glorious  light  above — 
Lift  to  heaven  his  hope,  his  love ! 


A    TRIBUTE    TO    CAPT.  HERNDON. 

SLEEP,  gallant  one  !  a  nation  weeps  for  thee, 
Thou  who  art  slumbering  'neath  the  deep  blue  sea  ; 
Sweet  flowers  above  thy  tomb  can  never  wave, — 
Sleep,  gallant  Herndon  !  in  thy  watery  grave  ! 

Calm  is  the  wave  that  rolls  above  thy  head, — 
It  brings  no  message  from  the  quiet  dead  ; 
It  tells  not  of  the  struggle  or  the  prayer 
When  death  brought  to  thy  heart  a  chill  despair. 

It  tells  not  how  thou,  with  sweet  dreams  of  home, 
Didst  wrestle  with  the  angry  billows'  foam  ; 
How  with  calm  lips  didst  bravely  drink  the  cup, 
And  thy  own  life  for  woman  yielded  up. 

The  moon  that  sparkles  in  the  midnight  sky, 
Perchance  it  heard  thy  spirit's  bitter  cry, 
When  home  and  friends  thy  vivid  fancy  drew, 
As  thou  wert  sinking  'neath  the  waters  blue. 

She,  the  bright  one,  who  waited  long  for  thee, 
No  more  on  earth  thy  love-lit  eyes  shall  see  ; 
Yet,  even  in  grief,  this  thought  shall  be  her  pride, 
He  lived  in  honor,  and  in  honor  died. 

Sleep,  gallant  one  !  old  Ocean's  coral  bed 
Must  pillow  now  thy  brave  and  noble  head  ; 
On  green  sea-flowers  thy  manly  limbs  must  lay, 
And  billows  rude  around  thee  ever  play. 

(261) 


262  A    TRIBUTE   TO    CAPT.    HERNL/ON. 

In  those  blue  waters,  dark  ami  deep  below, 
Lie  countless  gems  of  value  rare — but  oh  ! 
Old  Ocean  won  her  brightest  jewd,  when 
She  chose  thee,  Herndon,  from  the  forms  of  men. 

The  cold  waves  kiss  thy  still  and  marble  brow, 
And  sea-snakes  hiss  among  thy  tresses  now  ; 
But  never,  while  chivalric  hearts  beat  high, 
The  memory  of  thy  gallant  deeds  shall  die. 

Long  have  the  wayward  billows  o'er  thee  rolled, 
And  thou  art  lying  pulseless,  pale,  and  cold, 
V/here  friends  to  thee  no  monument  may  raise  ; — 
But  woman's  lips  shall  ever  lisp  thy  praise. 

Sleep,  gallant  Herndon  !  'neath  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Whose  every  wave  talks  to  our  hearts  of  thee  ; 
Sweet  be  thy  rest,  earth's  noble  son,  and  brave  ! 
Sleep  gently,  calmly,  in  thine  ocean  grave  ! 


THE  OLD  FARM-HOUSE. 

MEMORY  has  woven  her  spell  to-night, 

And  my  heart  flies  back  to  my  childhood  bright ; 

To  a  shady  spot  in  the  deep  green  wood, 

Where  the  old  farm-house  with  its  quaint  roof  stood  ; 

To  the  porch  where  the  woodbine  clustering  fell ; 

To  the  roses  that  grew  o'er  the  shaded  well  ; 

To  the  orchard  which  seemed  an  Eden  quite  ; 

To  the  sweet  apple  blossoms,  so  pure  and  white  : 

Yea,  my  heart  goes  back  with  a  longing  cry, 

As  the  scenes  of  those  vanished  days  flit  by. 

Artist  might  never  have  paused  to  paint 
That  old  farm-house,  so  queer  and  quaint ; 
Yet  memories  linger  around  that  spot 
That  Time's  cold  finger  may  never  blot. 
'Twas  there  that  I  frolicked  a  lassie  wild, 
While  a  mother  prayed  for  her  wayward  child  ; 
And  there  on  that  unfamed  spot  of  earth, 
My  first  young  dream  of  love  had  birth  ; 
When  my  tangled  curls  fell  over  a  brow 
That  the  world  has  given  its  shadows  now. 

'Twas  there  that  I  penned  rny  first  rude  rhyme, 
And  there  full  many  a  tree  did  climb  ; 
With  a  fast,  firm  hold  to  the  boughs  I  clave — 
Will  I  climb  Fame's  hill  with  a  heart  as  brave  ? 

(263) 


264  THE    OLD    FARM-HOUSE. 

Little  cared  I  for  pinafore  torn, 
For  fingers  bleeding  from  many  a  thorn  ; 
I  laughed  at  my  '  falls,'  and  I  smiled  at  pain, 
And  fearlessly  mounted  the  limbs  again  : — 
0,  hwould  that  this  heart,  so  soon  grown  cold, 
Could  throb  with  the  buoyant  pulse  of  old  1 

Oh  !  the  honeysuckles  and  lilacs  fair, 

They  grew  in  clustering  beauty  there  ; 

The  sweet-scented  pinks,  and  the  violets  too, 

The  roses  and  jasmines  so  fair  to  view. 

That  garden  was  all  the  pride  and  care 

Of  a  mother  whose  grave  is  far  from  there  ; 

And  I  know  that  the  winds,  as  to-night  they  roam 

Through  the  pines  that  sheltered  my  childhood's  home, 

Are  wailing  because  of  her  early  blight, 

Are  sighing  for  her  while  I  weep  to-night ! 

My  home !  my  home  !  I  have  often  cried 
Like  a  weary  child,  since  the  rolling  tide 
Bore  me  away  to  life's  battle  plain — 
Prayed  for  thy  quiet  shade  again. 
Oh  !  my  heart  is  heavy  with  woe  and  care, 
And  my  eyes  are  wet  with  the  falling  tear  ; 
For  the  feet  that  passed  o'er  thy  polished  floor 
Will  walk  through  thy  lowly  doors  no  more  ; 
And  hands  that  hung  thee  with  wreaths  of  old 
Are  pressed — ah  me  ! — to  a  heart  that's  cold  ! 

Oh  !  there  is  one,  should  he  read  this  rhyme, 
Who  would  fondly  remember  that  vanished  time  ; 


THE    OLD    FARM-HOUSE.  265 

Of  a  dauntless  heart,  and  a  fearless  eye, 

As  blue  as  a  summer's  cloudless  sky. 

1  wonder  whose  heart  grows  free  and  light 

Under  his  glance  of  love  to-night  ; 

Who  chases  the  clouds  from  his  earnest  brow  ; 

Whose  lip  is  quivering  for  him  now  ; 

I  wonder  if  his  is  a  happy  lot ; 

/  wonder  if  I  am  by  him  forgot. 

Do  you  remember  the  nights  of  old, 

When  some  tale  of  the  ancient  time  we  told, 

When  the  moonbeams  fell  on  your  classic  brow  ? 

Say,  in  what  land  do  they  kiss  it  now  ? 

When  you  sang  the  songs  that  your  childhood  loved, 

Ere  the  storm  of  unrest  through  your  heart  had  moved  ? 

When  you  told  the  frolics  of  boyhood  o'er, 

And  sighed  for  the  home  you  might  see  no  more  ? 

Oh  !  my  soul  would  forget  its  hidden  pain, 

Could  we  meet  in  the  farm-house  old  again ! 

Oh  !  I,  as  over  life's  plain  I  roam, 
May  often  dwell  in  a  fairer  home  ; 
Yet  none  will  ever  be  bright  to  me 
As  that  made  dear  by  its  dreams  of  thee  ; 
Oh !  for  one  hour  like  those  to-night ! 
Those  that  so  made  my  childhood  bright ! 
With  a  mother  to  call  me  her  love,  her  pride ! 
With  thou  beside  me  to  gently  chide  ! 
In  vain  !  in  vain  ! — life's  river  rolls  on, 
But  the  loved  of  sty  .childhood  are  gone — all  gone  ! 
12 


THE  GIPSY    BRIDE. 

(FRAGMENT  OF  AN  UNFINISHED  POEM.) 

How  speeds  the  wooing  of  a  pair 

Who  love  where  fate  forbids  they  should  ; 
Who  steal  apart  from  watching  eyes 

To  stroll  the  unfrequented  wood  ; 
Whose  hours  are  spent  in  idle  dreaming, 
Their  stolen  words  thus  sweeter  seeming  ? 
Ah  !  woe  to  those  who  look  above 
To  one  whom  fate  forbids  to  love  ! 
And  woe  to  thee,  thou  gipsy  queen, 

When  first  that  low,  sweet  voice  was  heard ! 
And  woe  to  thee  when  first  lie  paused 

To  breathe  love's  soft  and  honeyed  word  ! 
Say,  who  may  chain  the  roving  wind  ? 
"  The  eagle  mates  but  with  its  kind." 
Thy  love  a  noble  is,  and  proud, 

With  false  fair  face,  and  haughty  brow  ; 
His  name  is  old,  and  his  lands  are  broad, — 

An  outcast  gipsy  maid  art  thou  ! 
His  birth-place  was  a  castle  high, 

And  thine  a  crazy  tent ;  his  head 
Was  pillowed  on  a  silken  couch, 

While  outlaws  smoothed  thine  infant  bed  ; 
And  dusky  forms  of  visage  wild 
Smiled  first  upon  the  gipsy  child, 
(266) 


THE    GIPSY   BRIDE.  267 

While  he — ah !  gentle  hands  were  there, 
To  robe  with  joy  the  new-born  heir. 
Look  !  see  that  castle  grand  and  fair 

On  yonder  hill — how  proud  the  dome  ! 
'Twould  but  to  thee  a  prison  prove, — 

The  wild  wood  is  thy  native  home  : — 
Then  pause,  ere  love  has  made  thee  blind  : 
"  The  eagle  mates  but  with  its  kind." 

Hist !  hear  the  revel,  the  song,  the  shout ! 

The  moon  is  up,  and  the  stars  are  out ; 

The  gipsies  dance  on  the  village  green, 

But  they  miss  the  face  of  their  worshipped  queen. 

And  she  hath  stolen  from  all  apart, 

Brave,  and  dauntless,  and  free  from  fear  ; 
A  flush  on  her  cheek,  hope  in  her  heart, 

And  a  step  as  light  as  the  agile  deer. 
Aye,  she  hath  gone  to  the  try  sting-place, 

Where  the  black  waters  dash  in  angry  roar, 
To  look  again  on  the  stranger's  face, 

To  hear  his  musical  voice  once  more. 
Ah  !  his  brow  was  fair  and  his  eyes  were  blue, 
They  stole  from  the  sky  its  azure  hue  ; 
And  his  voice  was  as  soft  as  the  murmuring  rill, 
That  winds  its  way  down  the  lonely  hill  : 
And  his  lips  such  winning  smiles  could  frame, 
When  he  softly  breathed  the  gipsy's  name  ; 
When  he  clasped  her  hand  with  his  thrilling  touch, 

And  sought  her  eyes  for  the  love-light  there ; 
When  he  held  her  form  in  a  mute  embrace, 

And  played  with  the  folds  of  her  shining  hair ; 


THE    GIPSY    HRIDE. 

When  he  danced  with  her  on  the  village  greeii, 
And  stole  the  heart  of  the  gipsy  queen. 
Ah  !  pause,  silly  moth  !  the  blaze  is  bright, 

But  its  flame  will  scorch  thy  tiny  wing  ; 
And  pause,  fond  maiden  !  thy  misplaced  love 

To  thee  can  nothing  but  sorrow  bring. 
Thou  hast  read  the  stars  for  the  love-sick  heart, 

The  gift  of  prophectic  skill  is  thine  ; 
Then  lift  thy  palm  with  a  searching  eye, 

And  gaze  with  fear  on  each  warning  line. 
Ha !  thy  cheek  is  pale — it  says,  beware ! 
Thou  hast  viewed  the  destiny  written  there  : 
Hours  of  pleasure — but  years  of  care ! 
Brief  love — brief  joy — then  deep  despair  ! 

She  seeks  the  unfrequented  wood, 

The  lonely  dell  ;  her  throbbing  breast 
Is  torn  by  hope  and  fear  ;  her  heart 

Beats  wildly  in  its  vague  unrest. 
Each  breeze  that  sighs  among  the  leaves, 

She  fancies  is  her  lover's  voice, 
Who  breathes  her  name  in  whispered  tone  ; 

Each  strange  and  unfamiliar  noise 
His  coming  footstep  ; — yes,  'tis  he  ! 
Oh !  pain  of  sweet  expectancy  ! 
He  comes  at  last — he  of  the  eye 
That  stole  its  azure  from  the  sky  ; 
Of  lordly  step,  and  haughty  brow, — 
And  Zelia's  heart  is  happy  now  ! 
She  chides  him  not  for  long  delay, 

Her  lip  has  thrilled  beneath  his  kiss  • 


THE    GIPSY    BRIDE.  269 

Her  soul  forgets  its  transient  pain 

In  deep,  ecstatic  happiness  ! 
And  he — his  heart  is  touched  with  pain, 
Though  she  is  at  his  side  again  : 
He  half  repents  his  plotted  wrong, 

She  seems  so  artless  and  so  gay  ; 
Oh !  did  this  simple  wildwood  flower 

Bloom  but  to  wither  on  his  way  ? 
Nay  ;  he  would  from  such  sin  depart, 
Nor  break  that  wild,  impassioned  heart. 
Another  victim  ! — no,  oh  !  no  ; 

Too  pure,  too  good  for  such  a  fate  : — 
His  heart  is  stained  with  many  a  crime, 

But  this — ah  !  'tis  not  yet  too  late  : 
Poor  gipsy  maid,  I'll  harm  thee  not, 
I'll  leave  thee  to  a  happier  lot — 
I  will  not  break  the  wild  bird's  wing, — 

Back  to  thy  tribe,  thou  gipsy  queen  ! 
Go !  sing  thy  merry  songs  once  more, 

And  lightly  dance  upon  the  green  ? 
His  eyes  look  down  and  meet  her  own — 
Alas !  the  good  impulse  has  flown  ! 

He  thought  to  win  her  as  he  had  won, 

Daughters  who  boasted  a  nobler  name  ; 
In  vain — not  even  for  him  she  loved 

Would  Zelia  sully  her  own  fair  fame. 
For  reared  though  she  was,  to  mock  at  restraint, 
Her  soul  was  guietless,  and  free  from  taint ; 
And  maidens  of  loftier  birth  I  ween, 
Might  envy  the  worth  of  the  gipsy  queen. 


270  THE   GIPSY    BRIDE. 

Dark  was  her  cheek,  and  her  glowing  eye 
Outsparkled  the  stars  of  a  summer  sky  ; 
Like  the  rose,  which  the  honey-bee  loving  sips, 
Was  the  crimson  hue  of  her  parted  lips  ; 
A  foot  as  light  as  the  falling  leaf, 

A  tiny  hand  and  a  graceful  form  ; 
While  her  raven  locks  fell  in  shining  folds 

Over  faultless  bosom  and  polished  arm  ; 
A  voice  whose  sound  rich  music  swells 
Like  the  soft,  sweet  tinkle  of  silver  bells  ; 
A  laugh  that  rings  out  wild  and  clear, 
Like  the  song  of  a  bird  on  the  summer  air  : 
And  a  thousand  nameless  witcheries, 
As  sure  to  charm,  and  as  rare  as  these. 
Nor  beauty  alone  to  her  was  given  ; 
G-enius,  that  rare,  rich  gift  of  Heaven, 
Had  lent  its  charm  "to  her  midnight  eyes, 
And  breathed  in  her  wild,  impassioned  sighs. 
And  the  tempter  bent  him  low  to  speak 
Words  that  crimsoned  her  dusky  cheek  : 
"  Maiden,  these  tents  are  rude  for  thee — 

Gardens  of  beauty,  rich  and  rare, 
Shall  bloom  at  thy  bidding  and  thy  command, 

And  thou,  the  loveliest  flowret  there. 
Fragrance  from  many  a  tender  plant 

Shall  sweeten  the  air  that  is  breathed  by  thee  ; 
Music  of  soft  voluptuous  swell 

Shall  fill  thy  spirit  with  ecstasy. 
There  thy  lightest  word  will  be  as  law 

To  him  who  shall  live  for  thy  love  alone ; 
Then  fly  from  these  gypsy  tents,  sweet  maid, 

To  a  home  of  love — and  be  mine  own." 


THE    GIPSY    BBIDE.  271 

"  Nay  :  tempt  me  not — my  home  is  here 

In  the  lonely  wood,  where  the  wild  birds  dwell ; 
My  heart  goes  but  with  my  hand,  proud  lord  ! 

And  that  thou  hast  never  sought — farewell  1" 
With  a  mocking  laugh,  and  a  wafted  kiss, 
She  left  him  to  utter  loneliness, — 
But  a  chain  around  his  heart  was  wove 
That  bound  him  fast — and  that  chain  was  Love  I 
"  I  will  crush  from  my  soul  this  cursed  pride, 
I  will  woo — I  will  win  her — my  gypsy  bride, 
For  what  were  my  life  but  a  funeral  pall, 
Till  Zelia  is  lady  of  Egremont  Hall." 

A  silken  robe  of  texture  rare, 

And  jewels  worn  with  grace  and  pride, 
Bedeck  the  happy  gypsey  maid, 

And  Zelia  stands  a  noble's  bride  ! 
That  vow  she  deems  will  ne'er  be  broken, 
Is  fondly  breathed,  and  warmly  spoken, 

And  Zelia  wreathes  her  clasping  arms 
About  his  neck — her  heart  is  beating 

With  deathless  love,  and  rapture  deep — 
His  own'its  every  throb  repeating. 


UNDER  THE   LAMPLIGHT. 

UNDER  the  lamplight  watch  them  come  ! 

Figures  one,  two,  three  ; 
A  restless  mass  moves  on  and  on, 
Like  waves  on  a  stormy  sea  : 
Lovers  wooing, 
Billing  and  cooing, 
Heedless  of  the  warning  old, 
Somewhere  in  uncouth  rhyme  told, 
That  old  Time,  love's  enemy, 
Makes  the  warmest  heart  grow  cold. 
See  how  fond  the  maiden  leaneth 
On  that  strong  encircling  arm  ; 
While  her  timid  heart  is  beating 

Near  that  other  heart  so  warm  : 
Downcast  are  her  modest  glances, 
Filled  her  heart  with  pleasant  fancies — 
Clasp  her,  lover  !  clasp  her  closer  ! — 
Time  the  winner,  thou  the  loser  ! 

He  will  steal 

From  her  sparkling  eye  its  brightness, 
From  her  step  its  native  lightness  ; 

Or  perchance 
Ere  another  year  has  fled, 
Thou  may'st  see  her  pale  and  dead. 
Trusting  maiden  ! 
Heart  love-laden — 
Thou  may'st  learn 


UNDER    THE    LAMPLIGHT.  273 

That  the  lip  which  breathed  so  softly 

Told  to  thee  a  honeyed  lie  ; 
That  the  heart  now  beating  near  thee 

Gave  to  thee  no  fond  return — 
Learn — and  die  ! 

Under  the  lamplight  watch  them  coine  ! 

Figures  one.  two,  three  ; 
The  moon  is  up — the  stars  are  out, 
And  hurrying  crowds  I  see — 
Some  with  sorrow, 
Of  the  morrow 

Thinking  bitterly  , 
Why  grief  borrow  ? 
Some  that  morrow 

Ne'er  shall  live  to  see. 
Which  of  all  this  crowd  shall  God 

Summon  to  his  court  to-night  ? 
Which  of  these  many  feet  have  trod 
These  streets  their  last  ?  who  first  shall  press 
The  floor  that  shines  with  diamonds  bright  ? 
To  whom  of  all  this  throng  shall  fall 

The  bitter  lot, 

To  hear  the  righteous  Judge  pronounce  : 
"  Depart,  ye  cursed  !     I  know  ye  not  !"- 
Oh  !  startling  question  ! — ivho  ? 

Under  the  lamplight  watch  them  come, 

Faces  fair  to  see — 
Some  that  pierce  your  very  soul 

With  thrilling  intensity. 
12* 


274  UNDER   THE    LAMPLIGHT. 

Cold  and  ragged. 
Lean  and  haggard — 
God  ! — what  misery ! 
See  them  watch  yon  rich  brocade, 
By  their  toiling  fingers  made, 

With  the  eyes  of  poverty. 
Does  the  tempter  whisper  now, 
"  Such  may  be  thine  own  " — but  hoio  ? — 
Sell  thy  woman's  virtue,  wretch, 
And  the  price  that  it  will  fetch 
Is  a  silken  robe  as  fine — 
Gems  that  glitter — pearls  that  shine — 

But  pause,  reflect ! 
Ere  the  storm  shall  o'er  thee  roll, 
Ere  thy  sin  spurns  all  control — 
Though  with  jewels  bright  bedecked, 
Thou  wilt  lose  thy  self-respect ; 
All  the  good  will  spurn  thy  touch, 
As  if  'twere  an  adder's  sting  ; 
And  the  price  that  it  will  bring 

Is  a  ruined  soul ! 

God  prptect  thee — keep  thee  right, 
Lonely  wanderer  of  the  night  I 

Under  the  lamplight  watch  them  come — 

Youth  with  spirits  light ; 
His  handsome  face  I'm  sure  doth  make 
Some  quiet  household  bright. 
Yet,  where  shall  this  lover, 
This  son,  this  brother, 
Hide  his  head  to-night  ? 


UNDER    THE    LAMPLIGHT.  275 

Where  the  bubbles  swim 
On  the  wine-cup's  brim  ; 

Where  the  song  rings  out 
Till  the  moon  grows  dim  : 
Where  congregate  the  knave  and  fool, 
To  graduate  in  vice's  school. 
Oh  !  turn  back,  youth  ! 
Thy  mother's  prayer 
Rings  in  thine  ear — 

Let  sinners  not 
Entice  thee  there ! 

Under  the  lamplight  watch  them  come, 

The  gay,  the  blithe,  the  free  ; 
And  some  with  a  look  of  anguished  pain, 
'Twould  break  your  heart  to  see. 
Some  from  a  marriage 

Altar  and  priest  ; 
Some  from  a  death-bed, 

Some  from  a  feast : 
Some  from  a  den  of  crime,  and  some 
Hurrying  on  to  a  happy  home  ; 
Some  bowed  down  with  age  and  woe, 
Praying  meekly  as  they  go  : 
Others,  whose  honor  and  friends  are  gone, 
To  sleep  all  night  on  the  pavement  stone  ; 
And,  losing  all  but  shame  and  pride, 
Be  found  in  the  morning  a  suicide. 
Rapidly  moves  the  gliding  throng — 
List !  the  laughter,  jest  ~and  song  ! 


UNDER   THE   LAMPLIGHT, 

Poverty  treads 

On  the  heels  of  wealth  ; 
Loathsome  disease 

Near  robust  health. 
Grief  bows  down 
Its  weary  head  ; 
Crime  skulks  on 

With  a  cat-like  tread.  ^ 
Youth  and  beauty,  age  and  pain, 
Vice  and  virtue  form  the  train — 
Misery,  happiness,  side  by  side  ; 
Those  who  had  best  in  childhood  died, 
Close  to  the  good — on  they  go. 
Some  to  joy,  and  some  to  woe, 
Under  the  lamplight, 
Watch  them  glide  ; 
On,  like  the  waves  of  a  swelling  sea, 
On,  on,  on,  to  Eternity  ! 


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